


Developmental Milestones

by audreycritter



Series: Cor Et Cerebrum [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Batman - Freeform, Completed, Family, Gen, OHANA MEANS FAMILY, Original Character - Freeform, Sequel, Serious Injuries, batfam, depictions of medical gore/blood etc, dev - Freeform, dev has some issues of his own he needs to sort through, dev helps everyone out, medical crap, mix of angst and fluff, neurology, some remembered/recalled scenes of non-sexual child abuse, the batfam really needs a good doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 141,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: A/N: This is a sequel to Foreign Object. You don't have to start there, I suppose, but it might help.Dr. Kiran Devabhaktuni is a neurosurgeon. He's the neurosurgeon that cut a tumor out of Bruce Wayne's skull. And at first, Dev was just coming around for tea with Alfred. But somehow he's now working as the doctor for the Wayne Family.And the Wayne family? Also the Batman Family.Kiran Devabhaktuni is a curious man. He's probably a stupid man. He probably should regret what his life has turned into. But honestly? He really doesn't.





	1. Devabhaktuni, Kiran. 08/03, #00, REP:DIAG 09/06-FIN 04/01 LOC:GMH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the properties that DC Comics owns.  
> I do own Kiran Devabhaktuni.

Kiran Devabhaktuni almost regrets agreeing to slice open Bruce Wayne’s scalp, drill into his skull, and dig around in his brain. Not that it was as simple as agreeing, really, when one’s boss calls one in for a meeting with himself and the senior neurosurgeon to say, “Bruce Wayne has requested you personally, and since he’s a major source of hospital funding, we’re going to let Tony sit this one out and go with what Wayne wants.”

And when one’s boss, Anthony Fabriello, MD, looks relieved at this rather than irritated he is being passed over, it should maybe function as a bloody warning sign. And Tony, honestly? Tony had no fucking idea.

The scans should have been reason enough. When Dev sat in front of his computer, looking at them again and again before his appointment with Wayne, he knows a wiser man than he would have had the exact same reaction Tony surely did: _My hand to God, I will not be responsible for that._

But Dev is a glutton for punishment. Dev is maybe a bit mental. Because Dev? Dev looked at the scans for the fifth time, the six time, studying the curve of the tumor around the upper portion of the medulla and Dev saw a _challenge_.

He also saw a brain that should not be. It was a disaster zone, a minefield of contradiction. The fact that the tumor was the only thing he was being called in to take care of seemed a little ridiculous. Dev had never seen such scars. And Dev was curious.

Still, he knew the limits and requirements of his profession and when the billionaire playboy sat in his office with his upper crust gentleman’s gentlemen like a pair from minging _Downton Abbey_ , he had not sugar coated it in the least. He went down the whole list.

The risks included damage to nearly all systems: respiratory, sleep cycle, cardiac, crude touch, fine touch, pain processing, motor, and nervous. And the slight downward spiral of the end of the tumor meant it would be, even with the best instruments, akin to slicing the minuscule seeds out of a kiwi with a blunt spoon and hoping not to damage the fruit.

In other words, it couldn’t be done.

Dev was professional and honest except on that one final point:

He said that he bloody well could.

There was something then in Wayne’s eyes that should have stopped him. It should have sent him sprinting the kilometers back across the ocean into his old, dim, underfunded lab at Oxford.

Because right there, right in front of him, like a man stepped down from the theatre stage at the end of Hamlet, Wayne changed.

The billionaire was gone and in his place was this creature, this hard man who reminded Dev of his military-career father, his face and body like stone as he processed just how bad it really was. And he looked determined enough to rip time apart from space if that’s what it was going to take.

Dev was used to people-- grown-arse construction workers, timid old teachers, young tired mothers, icy female lawyers-- crying in his office. He had seen them all weep.

Wayne looked like the sort of man who made tears cry instead.

Dev should have refused right then.

But no, Dev was addicted to challenge and Dev was curious and Dev was stupid. So he stayed.

He should have never let him go home after, either. Or he should have let him go home and washed his hands of it, been done with him forever.

But Dev had finished that surgery on Cloud 9, felt a brief murmur of doubt when the man didn’t come to as fast as he had hoped, and then he had proved himself a fucking miracle worker.

He had written his name among the scars on the tissue of the impossible brain. And he wanted to see what would happen next.

Also, he had been offered a cuppa.

A really _fine_ cuppa, too.

And Dev? Dev, for all his bravado and talk, for all his posturing…was lonely. He was fucking homesick, still in culture shock after five years of excellent funding he could not bring himself to close the book on. He loved his research. The money was easy to find here in the States. He had published papers that had saved lives, restored quality of living.

But Dev was not all research.

Dev was a man who needed his mates.

And Dev was sodding bad at making new ones.

He was shite at American bar culture, too profane and distracted for book clubs, too mouthy at film screenings, hopelessly inept at any foray into dating and a little uninterested anyway to be bloody honest, too self-conscious for gym classes, and mostly just surviving on chatting with the grocery clerk for a few minutes a week.

So he had been playing video games. He bought himself some consoles, set a timer so he wouldn’t overexhaust himself on days before surgeries, and he button-mashed and trigger-squeezed his way though the landscapes of Skyrim and Fallout 3 and Far Cry 4 and Nathan Drake and Left 4 Dead 2 and Star Wars: Battlefront and LEGO Harry Potter and Shadow of Mordor and even, for a few harrowing weeks, Call of Duty Black Ops. But that reminded him too much of his father in the end and he pitched it in the rubbish bin.

So, when Alfred Pennyworth had invited him for tea on the day Wayne went home only thirty-six hours after brain surgery that should have killed him, it took all Dev had to not hug him. And Dev needed mates, but he was not a hugging kind of person.

And it was a _damn fine_ cup of tea.

Also? Also, also, also.

The reason Dev let himself sit in his boss’ office the next morning while his boss and the coward surgeon Anthony Fabriello lit into him and tore him to pieces for letting Wayne go home, when they _should_ by all rights have been thanking him for saving Wayne and saving the hospital from blemish, was that when Bruce Wayne came to after surgery, his finger had been moving. The nurse called it a tremor, but Dev had a father who had made him memorize Morse code and learn to operate a radio _just in case the world goes to hell_ , and Wayne had been tapping when he shouldn’t have been able to put two thoughts together:

_No. No. No. No. No._

Then he had opened his mouth and said

“Bat.”

And _that_ was the reason Dev let him go home.

And now, sprinting up the steps of Wayne Manor at three in the morning, for the sixth time in as many weeks, after getting a text that just read “SOS D bad shape,”?

Dev _almost_ regrets the whole thing.

But not quite.


	2. Wayne, Richard Grayson. 03/20, #03 REP:04/16 LOC:C.

In the end, the thing that had gotten him into the Cave was fear toxin getting into Dick.

The time stamp when Alfie had rung him read 04:36 when he looked at it later. He had answered the mobile groggily, fumbling with his eyes closed and expecting the hospital, only to hear,

“Kiran, we require your assistance,” as if it were the most fucking normal thing to say in a calm voice in the dead of night without explanation.

And Dev didn’t even ask. He knew, he just _knew_. Years of on-call and overnight shifts prepared him for that moment, to be instantly and completely awake and saying,

“I’ll be right there.”

Alfie had met him at the front door of the manor and Dev was nearly out of his skin with excitement because even though this was some kind of emergency, he’d been biting his tongue and bloody curious every weekly teatime for _months_ now.

The older man had led him to a grandfather clock in the lesser used study or parlor room (he could never quite decide which, still can’t) and paused there.

“Kiran,” he’d said, his hand on the clock, “I would not venture this caution, except that you have become a dear friend and an answer to prayer. I would be forever ashamed of myself, should worse come to worst and I had not properly warned you.

“Master Bruce left instructions that, should the need arise, we contact you and disclose the necessary details. We have come to that point, we feel, this morning. Master Timothy and I are in agreement on this. However, it is a sacred trust you are being invited to share and, while I trust you to have the proper discretion, should I ever be proven wrong, there are measures of last resort, measures Master Bruce himself is reluctant to use but would use if so compelled. You would not remember this, or our time together. There are other things you would lose.”

Dev did not and still does not know if Alfie was bluffing, but he had never seen the older man look as nervous as he did during this speech.

When he had nodded and Alfie had turned the hands on the clock, he had realized Alfie had said _Master Bruce left instructions_ , and Dev understood that even if the threat was a bluff, Wayne had managed this matter of his secrets and his identity when he could barely manage anything else.

And that was how Dev knew how much shite he might have just gotten himself into.

As far as the emergency went, he had been ready but he had not been prepared. He still doesn’t think there is any way he _could_ have prepared.

The first thing he had registered when he stepped off the elevator was how bloody huge the Cave was.

The second, in a moment of sheer panic, was the looming form of a Tyrannosaurus rex on the lower level and the brief thought that they had grossly misunderstood him if they’d called him to help with _that_ kind of emergency.

He hadn’t even finished his startled exclamation, which had been a carefully (panicked) arrangement of curses, when he had noticed the third thing.

The third thing, in perfectly focused hindsight, should have been the first thing, really, because it had been the sound of a man screaming.

Alfie was already down the stairs, leading the way, and Dev had sprinted after him and then past him, all thoughts of the Cave out of his mind except this medical unit that was like home to him.

Except, of course, it was in a fucking cave, and the screaming man was being wrestled and strapped down by teenagers in garish quasi-military-marries-into-the-circus costumes instead of, you know, _nurses_.

“Stay back!” Timothy had yelled at him, and Dev had ignored him. “Stay _back_ , Dev, he can–DAMIAN, his _leg_!”

And Dev was on the floor with a stunned head and an aching jaw.

And Timothy, the rotter, hadn’t even bothered to check on him. He’d said,

“I _said_ stay back for a minute, Dev!” and managed to keep one arm on his older brother and throw a toxicology report at the same time.

Dev had stayed on the floor to look at it.

“GRAYSON,” Damian Wayne had shouted into the man’s face, while literally sitting atop him on the gurney, “IF YOU CRY I WILL TELL FATHER.”

The boy, when Dev had glanced up from the report like looking over a newspaper at Sunday brunch, had looked bloody well terrified.

“He changed the formula,” Timothy had shouted, while pulling a restraint tight only for the arm to be already gone, away from him and the bed. There had been a moment of scuffle before he continued.

“He changed it and our sedatives aren’t working. I haven’t been able to study the analysis and find out why, but we’ve given him so much already I’m afraid we’ll kill him.”

“What have you given him?” Dev had asked, standing to his feet and pulling a restraint down while Timothy had held the limb.

And within a moment, he had ceased to be an outsider and had become one of them.

Dev was a physician and a bloody good one.

Once he was in, he was in. He worked without emotional response or register for the whole of the morning. He measured, adjusted, checked pupils and pulse, considered, adjusted again. When Dick’s condition was under some semblance of control, he had sent Damian up to bed.

When things were fairly stable, he sent Timothy.

They were so tired they’d gone with only mild protests that he’d literally shouted down with lots of swearing. It was surprisingly effective, as it always had been for him.

Once he had gotten the toxin flushing at a faster rate than the toxicology history claimed could be done, then he had sat by the unconscious younger man and held his hand until the heart rate on the monitor came within normal resting range.

His bedside manner was, as he’d told Wayne, _gorgeous_.

It was afternoon before he sat upstairs with Alfie in the kitchen, unable to eat the food set in front of him, the teacup and saucer clattering ominously at the end of his shaking arms, that he processed anything.

“So you’ve said,” the older man replied dryly but with concern, after Dev had said “Bloody hell,” for the fourth time.

“I…does it…do they…how…is it often…”

Alfie had taken the cup and saucer at that point.

“Bloody hell,” Dev had said for a fifth time, settling on a question. “Who do you _usually_ ring?”

“We tend to handle matters in house,” Alfie had told him, pushing the food a little closer to him. “There is a family friend, but she is only called for the most serious of cases.”

Dev ate without tasting, talking around his mouth full of food.

“But, you must…they must require…”

“All of the children know how to suture, but they are not often here at the same time. It has been an unusual several months. That duty often falls to me.”

“But they’re your _grandsons_!” Dev had exclaimed, aghast. In the seconds that followed, he had realized he didn’t know if this was technically considered true and also had remembered what a profoundly weird family this was (and is).

Alfie had nodded, confirming this, or at least his own feelings on the matter.

“The New World is a savage place,” Dev had finally said. “I miss civilization.”

And Dev had looked across the table, with his hands still shaking, at this gentle old man who invited him round for tea and kept a massive house and managed a family of at least seven, and his doctor’s heart made up its mind far before his wary head.

“I’ll tell the hospital to reduce my surgical duties,” he had said quickly, not giving himself room to think twice. “I’ll say I’m focusing on my research, which should still be true nonetheless, and I’ll be your man. Ring me day or night.”

“It tends to be night,” Alfie had said in reply, and it had been both a _yes_ and a _thank you_. “Master Timothy will give you access to the necessary files to be prepared for our usual difficulties.”

Dev had tried his tea again and found his hands still too shaky. He had set it back down.

When Timothy had come in minutes later, groggy and half-asleep, it was not with an armful of files or a flash drive. It was with a controller.

And then Timothy had stretched out on the couch while Dev sat on the floor and played something moody and atmospheric and entirely without characters of any kind.

When Dev had finally gone home, the morning had been full of things that should have terrified him, but he had fallen asleep and had nightmares about the bloody fucking sodding Tyrannosaurus rex.


	3. Wayne, Damian. 01/01, #08 REP:05/04 LOC:C.

Bruce Wayne has been back for all of a week when Dev gets the first post-return ring from Alfie. He has gotten into the habit, already, of staying awake most of the night, so he is awake and at the lab when the text comes.

The drive from the hospital, rather than his house, costs him an extra seven minutes. Alfie’s text didn't sound urgent but it did have the ominous warning,

_B has not been informed as to the extent of your current responsibilities. Determined best to take cold plunge, tally-ho._

“Coward!” Dev had exclaimed while standing in the lab reading it.

So, he's not especially looking forward to that conversation.

Still, he's hurrying just in case (Alfie sometimes has the bad habit of downplaying the severity of things). When he exits the elevator at a half-run, Batman is standing in the medical unit. Damian is sitting on the gurney, looking wan and infuriated all at once.

Dev isn't certain what the protocol here is; to him, Dick is always just Dick. But with the cowl off and the suit on, is the spectacularly right-pissed looking man Wayne or Batman?

“Where the hell is Alfred?” he demands when he sees Dev. “He isn't answering. And who called you? He's not dying.”

If Damian is startled by this calloused response, he doesn't show it. He's cradling his arm and looks just about as angry as his father.

“Dev handles everything now, Father,” the boy spits out with deep irritation, and Dev isn't sure if it's directed toward him or Wayne or the entire world in general. He seriously suspects the latter.

“Right then,” Dev says with a broad grin, “I'm it. And you can bloody well shut your mouth just now. Bugger off if you feel you can't; I've work to do.

He doesn't look at Wayne. Feigned disinterest works well for him, and if he's perfectly honest, though he speaks to nearly everyone this way out of habit, practice, or actually superior knowledge, Wayne is one of the only men who makes him feel nervous doing it.

And bollocks if it doesn't still work anyway, nearly every time. Wayne isn't protesting.

He drags a wheeled chair over to the gurney and drops down into it and looks at Damian. He pulls latex gloves on.

“Hullo, Dame,” he says, as if they're just running into each other. The boy glares at him. “What do you think? Must we amputate?”

“It's just _broken_ ,” Damian says, frowning toward the left. “I could have finished patrolling. Father?” He twists his head one way and then the other, and Dev sits back to look around. Wayne is gone.

“He's angry,” Damian says, sounding angry.

“You're a lovely pair,” Dev tells him. “Now let me see your arm.”

The boy is still wearing the green gauntlets. When he extends his arm, Dev skews his mouth sideways and considers. He tugs gently on a wing of the glove.

“We’ll have to cut those off.”

“We aren't doing anything. _You’re_ the doctor.”

“And you’re a bitter little wanker,” Dev tells him with a slight frown. He prods along the outstretched arm, feeling gently for obvious fractures.

Then, physician though he is, his stomach drops.

“Damian,” he says, fairly sharply, “How much of this can you feel? I could be wrong, but I’m never wrong, and this feels to _me_ like your radius has punctured your dermis.”

“I have retained full feeling in my arm, _Dev_ ,” Damian retorts, but his face is pale as Dev gingerly probes around the fracture with his thumb. “I would not disagree with your assessment.”

“Bollocks,” Dev says, holding Damian’s arm up for him at the elbow. He holds it aloft. “These are pretty tight then, are they?”

“They would be useless if they were loose.”

“Well,” Dev says with false cheerfulness, looking behind him to the counter of medical supplies while still holding Damian’s elbow, “at least it saved you from bleeding out on the way home.”

There's a pair of scissors on the counter that Dev knows will cut through the gauntlet material; he has no idea what they are made of and has received only vague, noncommittal answers from the kids when he's asked. The first time he tried to cut through a sleeve with the pair of regular scissors kept in the drawer, Tim had laughed at him for five minutes.

“Hold your arm up,” he tells Damian. “Don't move.”

“I wouldn't have bled out,” Damian says to him as Dev gathers supplies from the counter.

“Shite, these are my good pants,” Dev says, looking down at his legs when he grabs for the fluid absorption mats.

“Do you want to change?” Damian asks icily. “Because I have _plenty_ of time.”

“And leave you to suffer?” Dev returns, pulling out sealed syringes and adding them to a tray. “I might.”

“Tt.”

“How bad is it?” Wayne’s voice carries across the room from the elevator; he's come back down, and Alfred is with him.

“You bloody well would have had to ring me anyway,” Dev calls back. “So don't box Alfred round the ears quite yet.”

When he looks up, there is concern replacing the ire on Wayne’s face, albeit slowly.

“Compound?” he asks, striding more quickly across the room.

“Only the gauntlet between the bone and the world,” Dev says.

“Damnit, Damian,” Wayne says, looking at his son. “I _told_ you to wait for me.”

The boy says nothing but he is sulking.

“Well,” Dev says, sitting down in front of him again. “Do you still harbor a deep hatred for narcotics or will you allow me to make this easier on both of us?”

“It's _just_ a broken arm,” Damian says, like this is a stupid question and Dev a mere child.

“Use the anesthetic,” Wayne says, his voice stern.

“I'm--” Damian starts.

“No,” Wayne cuts him off, and Dev preps the syringe while the two of them glare at each other. He sets it aside on the tray.

“I’m going to cut the gauntlet away first. I’ve no idea how much it will bleed or how far it's through, and it's going to hurt like bloody hell. If it's bleeding heavily the anesthetic will have to wait until I get a second.”

“I'll administer the anesthetic,” Alfie says from behind.

There is a moment when Dev is not sure Wayne is going to move out of the way without being yelled at. He's still standing next to Dev, looking down at Damian.

Then he leans forward and picks Damian up off the gurney, gently, and sits in his place with Damian on his lap. Damian looks enraged.

“How's the angle, Dev?” Wayne asks, the anger gone from his tone.

Dev has the scissors in his hand already and Alfred steps forward, gloves already on, and picks up the syringe.

“There's no mountain to climb, Damian,” Wayne says quietly to the boy and the boy’s expression softens. It tenses again when Dev sets the scissors against the upper edge of the gauntlet along the seam, but it is less like fury.

Even before he gets to the fracture, there's a deep purple along the skin of Damian’s forearm. When he cuts past the fracture, expecting blood, there is none-- the bone is pressed up against the skin so close it is almost transparent, but it is not quite through. There's a deep red line across the stretched skin.

“I thought you said you were never wrong,” Damian says. His voice is a little shaky but it is mostly full of his usual derision.

“Don't move. Alfie, don't,” Dev orders sternly. “Nobody move.”

Alfie stops, the syringe a centimeter from skin.

Even Damian freezes.

Just under the skin, the jagged end of the radius is pressed up against the radial artery, the pulsing cord snagged on the cleft bone.

Wayne has seen it, too, and in his peripheral vision Dev sees the other man’s hand tighten slightly on Damian’s upper arm.

Dev is almost not breathing, steeling himself for action. He doesn't want to utter a word of warning, he does not want Damian’s arteries to surge with rapid pulse or swell with pumped anesthetic.

“Ninety beats a minute,” Wayne orders calmly, as if this is a thing one can ask an eleven-year-old boy.

Dev glances at Wayne’s hands more fully now. They are on either end of Damian’s injured arm and he does not have to ask to know that their hold is like iron fetters. That arm is not moving.

Once, in a disaster of a father-son bonding experiment, Dev’s father had taken him to the shooting range on base. He'd paraded him in with the authority of his rank and then showed him how to load the semi-automatic while some lieutenants smoked and watched.

Dev’s hands had shaken so badly that the first and second bullets he squeezed off sank into the polymer wall a full meter beneath the bottom of the target. The lieutenants had laughed and his father grimaced, gruffly told him to release on the exhale, and the next bullet hit a meter above the body outline.

They had gone out to the car park after that, Dev’s neck sweating under the heavy weight of his father's hand. In the car, his father had refused to look at him, and said simply, “Stick to your fucking books, Kiran.”

The next time his father had gone to the shooting range, he had taken Dev’s younger sister.

Dev’s younger sister is still a crack shot.

Dev stuck to his fucking books.

Dev uses a sliver of sharpened metal to separate skin from skin and he works on planes of tissue and bone; his fingers navigate through millimeters by microscopic image and his hands?

Dev’s hands _do not shake._

Just like they are not going to shake now, unhooking misplaced artery from misplaced bone. And he won't even have to think about it or force his hands to be steady. They just _will_ be.

Without even a nod of warning, the scalpel from the tray is in his hands and he is pressing it against Damian’s arm leaving a trail of rising blood behind. He has gauze against that blood as soon as the scalpel passes and then his little finger of one gloved hand slips under the skin and with a gentle, decided push the artery is off the fractured end of bone.

It takes a mere second, only two slowed heartbeats, and it is done.

It is a mess. There is blood all over his gloves, the scalpel, soaking through the gauze and dripping onto Damian, onto Wayne, onto his own gray slacks.

But not nearly as much blood as there could have been.

“Now,” is all he says to Alfred and the needle full of anesthetic is in just below the crook of Damian’s elbow.

Only now, holding gauze to the cut he will need to clean, keep open, work inside as soon as the arm is numb enough, does he sit back enough to process anything other than the centimeters by centimeters field of work in front of him.

Damian’s eyes are as wide as saucers and he is sweating, beads dripping off his hair and mixing with the blood on his lap. His teeth are still gritted and Wayne has his face pressed against the boy’s hair, murmuring quietly to him.

“Shh,” he's saying. “It's almost over. You did well. I could feel your heart slowing down, just like we practiced. You did so well.”

Dev's hands might, for just a second, shake.

Then he's moving again, switching pads of gauze, telling Alfred to fill another syringe, double checking the gauge of suture gut he pulled from the cabinet.

“I'm so sorry, Dame,” he says quietly, watching the boy from the corner of his eye while he shakes an antiseptic solution in a bottle with one hand. He needs to be careful that he doesn't miss signs of shock.

“ _Ayreh feek_ ,” the boy says in a shaky voice.

Dev doesn't need a translation for this.

Wayne doesn't reprimand the boy.

The sun is coming up by the time Dev finishes with x-rays, sedation, more anesthetic, a reduction surgery, and final sutures. The sun _is_ coming up, but he doesn't see it.

Damian is, impossibly, still awake, his teeth chattering from the fading sedative. He's kept up a biting partial dialogue--half in English, half in Arabic--with Dev throughout the wee hours of the morning. Dev has returned every bitter and sarcastic word without feeling spite behind any of it.

“I'm bloody glad your father was out for his surgery,” Dev tells him as he washes his hands. The retort he expects doesn't come and he turns, frowning.

Damian is on his side on the gurney fitted now with clean sheets thanks to Alfie, his arm stretched out beside him. He is _still_ not asleep, but the stubborn scowl his face has been bent into for hours is gone; there is an expression in its place that is plainly childlike and wounded.

“Hullo,” Dev says to him, pulling the chair back around. Wayne is somewhere across the cave; he's been typing for half an hour, ever since Dev started the closing sutures.

Damian blinks at him.

“You were smashing tonight,” Dev says. “And you know if you were rubbish, I'd tell you.”

Damian blinks again. Dev uses his wrist to check the temperature of Damian’s forehead and then calls,

“Wayne! Bring us his dogs, will you?”

“Risk of infection,” Wayne replies from the computer, not getting up.

“I’m sorry,” Dev stands. “Were you graduated from medical school while I was stitching your son’s arm? Bring us the sodding dogs.”

Wayne gets up.

Dev is sitting in the chair, turning a spare piece of the biodegradable bone plating over in his hands, studying it, when Wayne comes back with just Titus.

The dog puts his head on the gurney next to Damian’s face and licks him once. Damian sighs and falls asleep, his uninjured hand on the dog’s ear.

“Poor knackered little chap,” Dev says, looking at him.

He senses, rather than sees, Wayne grow stiff next to him.

“Every time he gets hurt, I tell myself it will be the last night he ever goes out.”

Maybe there is something broken inside of Dev, that he spent all night bent over an eleven-year-old’s arm and not once did it inspire anger against Wayne or reservations about the uniform the boy was wearing up until three hours ago, when Dev and Wayne helped him change before surgery.

There is probably something quite profoundly broken, because it did not occur to him once, until now.

“Eh,” he says, “when I smashed my foot to bits in primary school, my father picked me up from the GP office and told me to walk it off. Then he dislocated my shoulder shaking me when I cried.”

“So it's better that Damian is at least fighting criminals when he's injured?” Wayne asks, his voice full of skepticism and mounting anger.

Dev exhales noisily and studies the biodegradable plate in his hands again, bending it to feel the give and push of the material.

“I'm saying don't look to me for parenting advice,” Dev says. “I haven't a bloody clue. My dad was shite and I don't think you are. But bugger me if I know anything. I’m just here for the medical tech.”

He pockets the piece of plating and turns to scrub down the counters.

“What did he tell the doctor?” Wayne asks, something hard and soft at the same time in his voice now. “About your shoulder?”

Dev doesn't even stutter in his movement, pushing circles of disinfectant over the Formica surface.

“Nothing. My mum set it.”

There's a long silence that follows this and when Dev kicks the pedal for the trash can to dump an armload of damp paper towels and plastic packaging, Wayne is standing by the gurney bed, looking at Damian. He has one hand half-raised, as if he was about to touch the boy’s face and reconsidered.

“Don't be dodgy,” Dev says a little more loudly than he needs to. “You’re bloody well not going to break him. I'm going up to demand Alfie draw me a pint.”

He's in the elevator when he looks down and realizes he still is wearing his grey slacks with blood all over them. He considers just going straight home and changing, showering, sleeping off the morning before going back to the lab, but he steps off the elevator and on the table in the parlor is cup of steaming tea and a change of clothes.

And by this, he knows he and Wayne won't be having a chat about his role in the cave, because Alfred has already sorted it.


	4. Devabhaktuni, Kiran. 08/03, #00, REP:05/18 DAY OFF, LOC:WM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will get back to regularly scheduled angst and backstory soon, and I usually put notes AFTER chapters so they don't break the narrative, but I should warn you: This is pure self-indulgent fluff.

Dev has the weapon trained on the swaying form in the distance. She hasn’t seen him yet and that means there’s a chance. He swallows and shifts slightly, considering.

“It’s not going to work,” Timothy whispers. “You aren’t good enough yet.”

“Timothy,” he whispers back, harshly. “Leave off.”

“I’m just saying,” the boy insists. “We’ve only been working on this skill for a few days. You’re going to get me killed.”

“ _Timothy_ ,” Dev says. “Have ye so little faith?”

“I don’t know why you play this garbage,” a voice says loudly from behind them both. “It’s going to rot your brains.”

Dev and Timothy both jump and Dev’s finger reflexively squeezes; the arrow soars above the Hagraven’s head in the on-screen game and the creature turns to them, already blasting fireballs.

“Wayne!” Dev roars. “Bloody hell!”

Timothy snatches the controller from him and switches weapons.

“I _told_ you, Dev,” he complains, mashing buttons with his thumb. “I don’t have enough-- and I’m dead. This whole save file is ruined. I can’t get past her and _somebody_ saved right after the giants.”

He throws the controller down and Dev picks it up.

“I’m giving it another go,” he says, scowling. “If your _father_ can keep his sodding mouth shut.”

“It’s just a game,” Wayne says, sounding a little amused. But he does take a small step back when Dev and Timothy both turn to glare at him in unison.

“Sometimes, Bruce,” Timothy says bitterly, “you sound like such a _dad_.”

“It makes me a better surgeon,” Dev says. “‘Past video game play in excess of 3 hours a week correlated with 37% fewer errors and 27% faster completion’ in surgery, Rosser, et. al. I’ve others if you care to hear them.”

He says it casually, like it’s just a thing one says, but he’s been waiting over three years to toss that off at someone.

“Hnn,” is all Wayne says.

Wayne joins them, sitting on a chair near the couch. Timothy’s slouched back with his arms crossed and the room is quiet while Dev lines up the shot again and keeps the bow drawn.

“It’s not going to work,” Timothy says. “You’ve got to be at least level 20.”

Dev releases the arrow and the Hagraven staggers and falls over with falsely sudden stiffness.

He hands the controller back to Timothy, whose eyes are shining.

“Bruce,” he says, looking at Dev and then turning to raid the body. “I have a new dad now.”

“Let me try,” Wayne says, sitting forward.

Timothy has the map pulled up in game but his fingers stop and his expression is plainly incredulous.

“It was a joke, Bruce.”

“I know,” Wayne says, sounding distinctly unbothered and a little distracted. “Thirty seven percent fewer errors?” he asks Dev.

“And twenty-seven percent faster. In Rosser’s study. There are other studies, as well. Do you want to play this?” Dev gestures to the telly.

“Anything,” Wayne says. “Surprise me.”

“Not this,” Timothy says, taking the disc out. “Nothing with character creation. We’ll be stuck here for hours while you try to get everything perfect.”

“I would n-” Wayne stops. “Surprise me,” he repeats.

Dev and Timothy flip through a binder full of games, debating and talking quietly while Wayne watches.

“Shadow of Mordor?”

“Hmm.”

Dev looks at Timothy. He raises an eyebrow, a grin already creeping across his face.

Timothy pales.

“No, Dev,” he says. “No.”

But Dev already has the game out of the sleeve.

Timothy sits down and covers his face with both hands, peeks through his stretched fingers.

“I did not agree to this,” he tells Wayne.

The LEGO Batman logo fills the screen and Dev hands Wayne the controller.

“What is this,” Wayne says flatly. Dev leans over and pushes the button to enter the game.

“This,” he says, “is your chance to be the Batman.”

Timothy moans.

The story for the tutorial level is playing and Dev sits back and nudges Timothy.

“Chin up,” he says. “You bloody well might as enjoy it.”

“Lance?” Wayne asks, staring hard at the screen. “A moon base? What is this?”

“Just give the buttons a good mash and skip this part, then,” Dev says.

“Dev,” Timothy whinges.

Tutorial instructions have appeared on screen and Wayne scoffs at them.

“What the hell is a double jump?”

It is clearly causing Timothy distress but Dev _enjoys_ the obvious irritation. It might be the best fun he’s had in weeks.

“It makes no sense to build your equipment in field,” Wayne says a few minutes later. “Why isn’t this working?”

“You have to keep pressing it,” Timothy moans, his face still covered.

“I am,” Wayne says, annoyed.

“You’re holding it down, mate,” Dev leans to look. “Tap it a fair bit.”

The first enemies enter the screen and Wayne’s small character promptly explodes to pieces five times in a row. Dev is watching Wayne more than the game and when it’s losing its humor, he announces,

“Well, that was bloody fun. New game.”

“Yes, please, thank God,” Timothy exclaims.

Wayne glares at Dev.

“You were enjoying that,” he accuses.

“Wholeheartedly,” Dev agrees. “What now, Timothy?”

“Maybe,” Timothy ventures, still pale, “just a racing game. A Need for Speed or something. That is, if you still want to, Bruce?”

“Sure,” he says with a shrug, and Dev gets the sense that Wayne is trying hard to put Timothy at ease again. “Racing sounds fine.”

Dev swaps the discs and lets Timothy talk Wayne through menu options to get to a race. He doesn’t get to see them interact often outside of the Cave and it’s sort of lovely. Timothy sits on the arm of the chair, leaning over Wayne’s shoulder, their heads almost touching. It’s casual and comfortable and secure; it almost makes him feel wretched for starting with the LEGO game. Almost.

Once the race starts, the room is quiet except for Wayne occasionally commenting or asking,

“How do I drift?”

“Where’s the brake, again?”

“Is Father ill?” Damian asks from the doorway. Wayne doesn’t turn but Timothy and Dev both do. His arm is still in a cast and Titus and Malcolm are behind him.

“I’m not ill,” Wayne says, still watching the screen. “I’m indulging Tim.”

“Oi,” Dev says, in Timothy’s defense. “You were about improving your surgical skills. Don’t shove this off on poor Timothy.”

Wayne grumbles but doesn’t say anything else.

He finishes in third out of twelve and looks disappointed.

“That’s pretty good,” Timothy says, shrugging. “The first time we let Damian play he came in twelfth and ran the timer out because he wouldn’t listen to anyone.”

“Drake,” Damian snaps, still standing behind the couch. “You promised.”

“Dick promised. I did not.”

“I’ve improved,” Damian says, addressing Wayne now. “And third is…acceptable.”

“What did you think?” Timothy asks quickly, before Damian can continue.

“Well,” Wayne says slowly, “it wasn’t _awful_. But what do you say we show Dev the real thing?”

The look they exchange and both turn to give Dev is the kind of look that _should_ make him get up, excuse himself for the afternoon. But Dev is a bloody curious man and sometimes a foolish one.

“Care to go for a drive, Dev?” Wayne asks, standing and handing the controller to Timothy.

“Sod off! Yes, absolutely,” Dev says. His enthusiasm is not feigned.

Wayne leads him through the manor to an area that is entirely new to Dev. They go through door after door and emerge into a dark, cavernous room. Wayne flicks a row of switches and the lights click on, one after another.

It’s a garage.

A right proper, _massive_ garage.

“Bloody hell,” Dev breathes out. He’s not well into cars but it’s still impressive.

“The Maserati or the Lotus, Tim?” Wayne asks, pulling on driving gloves. There’s a small counter and a polished pegboard of car keys behind him.

“Neither,” Timothy says firmly. “If you take either of the best ones, then Damian and I can’t come. They’re both two-seaters. Let’s take the Tesla or the Mclaren. Or maybe the BMW.”

“The BMW is sticking in the lower gears,” Damian says.

Wayne turns and gives him a stern look.

“I told you no driving. Especially with a broken arm.”

“It was just for maintenance,” Damian sulks.

“You are eleven,” Wayne says, as if he has to remind the boy. “You do not have a license. Or permission.”

Dev only half-hears this exchange.

“You have a Tesla,” he says hollowly.

Wayne scans the room and raises an eyebrow.

“That’s the part that impressed you?”

“It _is_ pretty cool,” Timothy says defensively.

“I’ll let you drive it sometime,” Wayne says, striding away from them. “But today we’re taking the Mclaren.”

When they pull out of the garage, beneath the west side of the manor, Wayne says without looking back,

“Seat belts.”

Then a second later, he says,

“You, too, Damian, or you can stay here.”

“Tt,” the boy says from directly behind Dev. There’s a click and then Wayne begins to pick up speed going down the drive.

“Is the abandoned airport lot still in good shape?” he asks, adjusting the rearview mirror.

“Pretty good,” Timothy says. “Alfred and I fixed some potholes after the last thaw.”

“Good,” Wayne says, glancing over at Dev. “You don’t get motion sickness, do you?”

This is another one of those warning signs, the moment where Dev should throw his hands in the air and lie, saying, “ _Oh, bollocks, I do quite badly, actually, let me out now._ ”

But Dev is too thrilled to be sensible, so all he says is, “Not at all.”

The car keeps a respectable, law-abiding speed on the lined road for a while and it is a right pleasant drive. Dev could lean his head back and doze and be perfectly content for hours of this, the afternoon spring light splashing across his knees and shoulder. The vents are blowing air that is _just_ the right kind of chilled.

Then after about fifteen minutes, Wayne takes a sudden, sharp turn onto an unmarked road and speeds up, just a little.

They reach a tall chain link gate and Wayne puts the car in park and climbs out to drag it open.

“You’re going to want to hold on,” Timothy says, leaning forward between the driver and passenger seats. “And stay buckled.”

“Timothy, you are making me sodding nervous,” Dev answers, resisting the urge to grab the roof handle above his arm.

“Tt,” Damian says.

Wayne gets back in the car and takes it out of park. They edge slowly through the gate and there is a small, two-story decrepit building with a speaker atop it shaped like a laughably large megaphone.

And then there is an expanse of tarmac, vast and pockmarked with circles of asphalt repairs.

The car slows into a turn. Wayne has angled it to face the longest unbroken stretch. He lets it idle for a second, another second.

Right as Dev is going to ask if he’s quite alright, Wayne presses on the gas pedal-- hard.

Dev isn’t slammed back against his seat, but he is pressed there as they gain speed across the blacktop, Wayne shifting gears every breath. Within seconds they’re going faster than Dev has ever gone in a car and it’s glorious.

But then they are coming to the edge of pavement, an untrimmed field of wild grass bright green with new growth spread before them and Wayne is not braking or even easing up on the gas.

“Wayne,” Dev says, with some concern. He remembers it was only a few weeks ago the man returned from Europe after a brush with severe depression. “Wayne,” he says again. It feels like they’re almost on top of the field.

“Dev,” Wayne replies evenly. “Hold on.”

And then he jabs the brake and then the gas again and back and Dev can see the gear stick being thrown about out of the corner of his eye and he _has_ reached up to grab the roof handle because they are _spinning_ once, twice, then three times and Dev shouts in terrified rage, then they shoot out along another straight stretch.

It takes Dev a full five seconds of racing along to remember to breathe again and Timothy, the blighted wanker, is in the back _laughing_. Dev twists in the seat to look at him. The boy is tipped sideways against the door.

“You think it’s a right good joke, do you?” Dev demands.

Damian is sitting ramrod straight, not holding on to anything or looking like he ever did, and there is the tiniest of smiles on his face.

“I told you,” Timothy laughs, “to hold on. You should have seen your face.”

“My face,” Dev snaps, “is none of your bloody business.”

“It was pretty satisfying,” Wayne says with the smallest hint of amusement, to match Damian’s smile. “But we’re not done.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Dev says just as Wayne shifts gears again and they go off into another spin. Dev pinches his eyes shut and doesn’t open them again right away, but he is forced to when haunted by the profound feeling that the movement is wrong.

They came out of the spin going backward. At full speed.

“Shite,” Dev says. “Just don’t kill me. My hands save lives.”

“No one is dying today,” Wayne says, taking time to _adjust the side view mirror_ while blazing backward at well over 230 kph, according to the gauge Dev risks tipping a bit sideways to see.

There is a field behind them and the edge of pavement and at the last possible second (a bit after, really, Dev thinks), Wayne spins the steering wheel and the car spins and drifts across a long stretch of tarmac and this time, when they go forward, Dev _is_ slammed back in his seat.

“Want out?” Wayne asks, slowing near the old building.

“No,” Dev says through gritted teeth. “I’m quite fine.”

He endures another twenty minutes of what is plainly stunt work before the car slows by the field again and Wayne turns the engine off.

Timothy is giggling, _giggling_ , after that final series of spins.

“Bruce,” he says, “that was _great_.”

“It was pleasant,” Damian agrees.

“Well,” Wayne says, leaning back and flexing his hand in the glove. He looks at Dev. “What did you think?”

Dev opens the door and swings his legs out of the car. He feels a bit black around the edges.

“Head between your knees,” Wayne says from behind him.

“Sod off,” Dev says. “Don’t bloody tell me how to take care of a bloody brain.”

But he leans over anyway.

“Are you okay?” Timothy leans forward, sounding concerned.

“Fuck. You were _showing off_ ,” Dev says sternly.

“Yes,” Wayne agrees amiably. “I was.”

“It was blinding,” Dev says from his knees. “That was the best bloody thing I’ve done all the sodding year.”

Wayne laughs.

“Again?” he asks.

“God, no,” Dev exclaims. “I’ll be sick all over your posh car if we go again now.”

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” Timothy asks again.

Dev inhales and forces himself to sit up. The world is no longer spinning. He tucks his long legs back into the car and buckles.

“Right then,” he says. “Maybe just once more.”

Wayne’s smile is all in his eyes, his mouth a straight line.

“Buckle again, Damian,” he says without looking to the back seat. “Now.”

There’s a click.

“This time, do the thing where you drift into parallel park,” Timothy says.

Now, Wayne’s mouth does curl into a smile, and Dev reaches for the roof handle, past any semblance of shame in it. He reasons his center of gravity is much higher than that of the boys in the back.

“You got it, Tim.”

And they’re off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also should acknowledge that some of the details in LEGO Batman (Lance and the moon base) were gently lifted from Jeph Loeb's "Superman/Batman: The Search for Kryptonite" in a brilliant scene in which Superman and Batman watch a movie ABOUT THEM being filmed on a rooftop in Gotham. It's an amazing collection, haha.


	5. Wayne, Jason Todd. 08/16, #04 REP:06/08 LOC:WF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regular scheduled angst.

It is a neon-lit two in the morning when Dev steps out of the closet-sized shop with a foil-wrapped fish taco in one hand. He’d been in the lab hours and hours ago when his mobile buzzed, and he’d rung the hospital desk back and they’d told him he was needed in the ER for a car wreck victim with severe brain trauma.

When he got out of surgery, he’d been starving and the thing that sounded the best was fish tacos. And the best fish tacos he’d found in Gotham were from this little hole in the wall place that kept the strangest hours. He’d rung ahead and found they were indeed open, so he made the trek in his hatchback.

Dev stands for a moment on the sidewalk, just looking around at the glow cast by the towers of bright lights against the buildings. He eats half the taco standing there, a dozen or so meters away from his parked car, when he hears the fighting.

It is a few blocks away still, but other heads on the sleepy street are turning to see, as well. There’s plenty of cursing and a gunshot, but when the others begin to hang back, Dev holds his ground feeling oddly invincible. It might be the taco, it might be his exhaustion, it could just be the good mood from a fairly successful surgery, considering.

Then the commotion stills and there’s a yell,

“Where the fuck did he go? Are you _running_ away from me, you Nazi bastard?”

There’s the rev of an engine, something small but powerful-- a motorcycle.

Dev is still standing in the middle of the sidewalk when it roars down the road past him, already speeding.

It is only a few meters further down the street when there’s a loud _schlep_ and then a boom as the rear tire of the cycle is shot out and explodes into rubbery scraps all along the road while the bike tips to the left, the right, and then drops into a wild spin along the tarmac.

Without even thinking about it, Dev is running. The red masked man skidded ten meters or so past the dented bike and is in an unceremonious heap against the curb. A small crowd of worried onlookers, mostly drunk or high, has gathered around him already by the time Dev gets there.

“I’m a doctor,” he says, “back the bloody hell away, let me through.”

Three of the crowd step back with dazed expressions. One of them coughs, spits, and stumbles away entirely. Dev kneels next to the man and looks him over before he even tries to touch him. The red helmet seems intact, but the pavement tore holes in his clothes and there’s a large, seeping wound on one thigh. But it’s seeping, not gushing, and it can afford to wait a minute.

He knows without lifting the helmet off that it’s Jason Wayne.

The boy is on his side, one arm bent under his chest.

When Dev reaches a hand forward, there’s a woman’s sharp, accented voice biting out behind him.

“Don’t touch his titties,” she orders.

Dev looks over at her. It’s the woman from the fish taco shop. She’s got a wooden stick with a single key dangling at one end, and she’s got a large paper cup of water in one hand. She didn’t bother with a plastic lid or straw.

“He’s a real nice boy,” she says to Dev, shooing away a drunk man with a gentle sound, saying, “You go keep yourself outta the way, Lionel.” She turns her attention back to Dev and kneels across from him on the other side of Jason’s limp body. She puts a hand on Red Hood’s shoulder.

“Don’t roll him,” Dev says sharply. “I’m not certain of his back yet.”

She doesn’t exert force to move him, but she does keep her hand there.

“He stops by sometimes, buys tacos for the kids that hang around. This isn’t the first time he’s fought on this street. Once, I saw him shock a man right to the ground with that picture on his chest. Electric titties. And the way he gets those little street rats to laugh. Lord, but he’s a nice boy.”

There are gunshots down the street and Dev instinctively ducks. The woman does do, but he surmises their instincts were forged for reasons different to each other.

Red Hood moans and it’s muffled in the mask.

There’s a caped figure down the street now on the side of a building, holding on to some sort of rope when Dev glances back, and Dev watches the figure haul another man out of the window while they dangle there. A gun clatters to the ground three stories below and the caped man and his prey soar upward along the rope.

Dev turns back to Jason.

He has no idea what parts of the costume might be dangerous to him just for touching. He makes a mental note to demand updates and reports on this sort of thing for the future.

Red Hood’s head lolls to the side and Dev understands the the boy is awake, and looking at him.

“What the hell?” Jason asks, his voice a little shaky. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Fish tacos,” Dev says. The woman nods her agreement.

“I feel like a blended smoothie,” Jason says.

“I told him you were electric,” the woman says. “I think he’s trying to help.”

Jason’s hand fumbles for the cuffs of his gloves and then along his helmet and then he sighs and lets his hand drop.

“There,” he says. “I’m turned off.”

“Is that what you tell your girlfriend, mate?” Dev asks, feeling now for Jason’s pulse, to see if it’s erratic or steady.

Jason laughs, a rough, wet sound that ends in a cough. That wetness worries Dev a bit.

“It’s what I tell _your_ girlfriend,” Jason says, groaning a little after. “When she tries to talk about you in our hotel room.”

“Sod the fuck off,” Dev says, saying words without really thinking about them or processing what they mean. He’s focused on hearing inside Jason’s chest with his bare ear against the boy’s back, no stethoscope on hand, to judge if either lung is punctured and if he can move him. One side sounds a little low.

“Hood,” the woman says. Dev had forgotten she was there. “You know this creep? You okay with this?”

“He’s a friend,” Red Hood says, moaning again when Dev presses on his side.

“Can you feel your sodding legs?” Dev asks. “Can you move them?”

They move a few inches across the tarmac in response.

“Wait with him. Don't bloody move,” Dev orders the woman, glancing up at her. “I’m going to fetch my car.”

She nods and he takes off running. He’s not fond of running, particularly, but his long legs eat up the ground and he’s past the fish taco shop and to his hatchback in hardly any time at all. He cuts the wheel hard to peel out of parallel parking and down the street, stopping right next to Red Hood and the waiting woman.

“He passed out again,” she says, when Dev opens his door, “I tried to keep him talking.”

“Bollocks,” he exclaims. “Bloody hell, can you help me get him into the car?”

Dev jerks open the passenger door and leans the seat as far back as it will go.

The woman, despite her slight stature, is strong, and together they get Jason into the car without too much bumping about. Dev snaps the buckle across the boy’s lap and closes the door.

“Where will you take him?” she asks. Dev gets the distinct impression that he would not be taking Jason anywhere if the boy hadn’t woken up and recognized him.

“Somewhere safe,” Dev says, inwardly cursing. He has the sneaking suspicion that he’s never going to be able to come get fish tacos here again. “Then I can take care of him.”

“I’ll hunt you down and rip out your throat if you’re lying to me,” the woman says.

“You bloody well couldn’t,” Dev says, taking the chance and calling her bluff.

“No,” she replies, a little defeated. “But I’d want to.”

Dev climbs behind the steering wheel and tears away down the road without another word. The Manor is at least a twenty minute drive, and that's even with speeding as much as he's willing, and he's not particularly willing based on experiences he's had with Gotham police.

Plus, there's a masked boy in the passenger seat. Drawing attention to himself would not be the best thing he could do.

With his eyes on the road, Dev twists his arm and reaches toward the back, patting around for the strap of his now overstocked medkit. When he finds it, he drags it forward and unzips it with one hand while it’s wedged between the passenger and driver seats.

At a stoplight, he looks down at it to find what he wants-- an 16 gauge hypodermic needle, syringe, and IV tubing just in case. He sets them on the dash and the light turns green.

The car jerks forward again, half his attention on the gloves he's pulling on with his teeth. There's a clicking sound he doesn't fully register next to him and then the distinct smell of nicotine drifts across the cab.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he shouts, glancing over. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jason has gotten the mask off and let it fall to the car floor at his feet, and he's leaning back and smoking a cigarette while he sucks in air in short gasps.

Dev flings the dangling glove off his hand and reaches over and rips the cigarette out from between the boy’s lips and keeps in pinched in his fingers while he presses the button for the window. He throws it out onto the tarmac and rolls the window back up.

“What are those for?” Jason wheezes, lifting an arm to point generally in the direction of the needle and syringe.

“You've broken ribs and if I wasn't sure before, I'm bloody certain now from the sound of you that you've got a collapsed lung!” Dev yells. “Why the bloody _fuck_ would you light up a fag?”

“Nerves,” Jason answers, his voice raspy. “And I like the fricking taste. Where are we going?”

“Anywhere!” Dev shouts, “I don't bloody know. Somewhere safe I can look you over and keep you alive.”

“I'm not dying,” Jason laughs. “I frigging know what that feels like and this ain't it.”

“Bugger me. Do I have to explain to you what lungs are for? Of course you aren't dying this instant or I'd not be driving the bloody car. But if your lung collapse turns into a tension pneumothorax case, we've minutes before your heart gives out and you die of oxygen deprivation.”

“Let me know if it gets that bad,” Jason gasps casually, but there's a hint of fear in his widening eyes.

“Is there anywhere we can go that's closer than the Manor?” Dev asks.

Jason doesn't answer and he's working harder to catch his breath.

Dev brakes in the middle of the road.

“My apartment,” Jason says between ragged breaths. “It’s close.”

“Where is it?” Dev asks, looking at the intersection ahead. This section of town is nearly deserted this late, but a truck behind them beeps and then pulls into the empty oncoming traffic lane to swerve around Dev’s car.

Jason looks at Dev and opens his mouth, but doesn't get any words out.

“Bloody hell,” Dev mutters, and he throws the car into park and pulls his gloves on. He jerks Jason forward by the arm and presses him against the door, and unbuckles to half-kneel, half-lean on the driver seat so he can press his ear against Jason’s back and listen again.

One lung is definitely collapsed. Dev listens for another minute and then reaches back for his stethoscope. This sort of thing requires precision.

“We’re two blocks away,” Jason wheezes, his face against the window. “East.”

“What the bloody hell kind of direction is east?” Dev demands, checking the boy’s pulse while he listens to his lung. There is a deep-seated relief at the steady pulse and the slight sucking sound on the left side of Jason’s chest. It's not the full lung.

“East!” Jason says again. “There are only four directions!”

“Left or right, mate, we’re not in the sodding woods.”

Dev wants to keep him talking and awake. They might even make it to the flat then, if it's that close.

“Can't,” Jason says, “breathe.”

Or not, bugger all.

Dev picks up the needle and tears it out of the packaging, screws it into the syringe and presses two fingers against the ribs near the collapsed section.

“This is going to hurt,” he says calmly, “and then it's going to feel quite a bit better.”

He jabs the needle in along the top edge of the rib and pulls back on the syringe depressor.

Jason gasps, but he _gasps_  and there's a hiss of air and within seconds his breathing has gotten easier.

“Hot damn potatoes,” he says, “I thought you said it would feel better.”

“You're bloody breathing, yeah?” Dev asks. “You were still in a spectacular smash-up with your bike.”

“Fricking skinheads,” Jason mutters, his fingers tight on his knee. “Little prick. I'm hardly even mad because it was a hell of a shot.”

Dev withdraws the needle and tapes gauze over the small hole.

“We aren't done here but that ought to hold you. Now, your flat.”

Jason stays hunched forward while Dev drives and he gives brief directions. He makes it up to the second story flat on his own feet, leaning heavily on Dev, and Dev leaves him on the couch while he jogs back down for his medkit.

He opens the door to grab it and registers the blood all over the upholstery and rubberized coating over the plastic cup holders and the nylon of the seat belt.

Dev frowns at it and then takes the bag and the Red Hood helmet and sprints back up the stairs, more because of the helmet tucked under his arm than anything medical at this point.

“Do you want to watch something on the telly?” Dev asks Jason, when he drops the medkit bag in front of the couch. “This is mostly just patchwork and it's not going to be sodding comfortable, not by a long shot.”

“No,” Jason says. “I have a book I'm in the middle of.”

He presses play and tosses his phone on the nearby table, and a woman's voice comes from the tiny speakers, picking up the narration mid-chapter of a book Dev does not recognize and does not bother trying to follow.

Her voice itself, however, is a bit distracting.

He checks Jason’s pulse and listens to his lungs again before he pulls out the scissors to cut away material around the abrasion on Jason’s upper leg.

“Cor,” he says softly, a bit swept away. He stands to go boil water to use for cleaning. “I’d wed that woman in a heartbeat if she'd just lounge around and read to me.”

Jason looks amused.

“She's a Swiss actress,” he says. “And I think she's married.”

“Bloody hell,” Dev mutters. “Do you want some water?”

Jason nods.

For the next thirty minutes, Dev half-listens to the book and disregards every noise Jason makes except those that might signal emergency, as he picks bits of gravel out of the abrasions. He applies medicated ointment and plasters, checks lungs, tapes ribs, checks lungs again, measures medicine, checks lungs again.

He is in his element, even with a pot of cooled boiled water on the table at his elbow and a towel thrown over the couch at the last minute to save it from blood and tarmac grit. The audiobook is like the strains of violin music he knows Tony Fabriello sometimes listens to during surgery; a faint and focused compartment to stave a wandering mind during the rote parts of the work.

So, when someone pounds on the door, shouting, he and Jason both jump.

“Jay? Jay, are you in there?”

“It's Dickie,” Jason says to Dev. “Let him in before he knocks down the fucking door.”

Dev peels his gloves off as he stands. When he opens the door, Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne, his arm in the last week of the cast, are standing on the front mat which Dev now notices is quaintly floral.

“Hullo,” he says. “I've your brother.”

“We've been looking all over the damn city for you!” Dick yells, stepping in and slamming the door behind him. “You turned off your helmet!”

Jason doesn't get to answer because Dick is already on his mobile.

“Yeah, we've found him. He's alive. Dev is already here! No, I don't know,” he pulls the mobile away and looks at Dev, “How bad is it?”

“A few fractured ribs, partial pneumothorax, some abrasions.”

“Did you get that?” Dick asks into the mobile. “No, he's awake. Yeah. Damn it, Bruce, I know that. Hold on, I'll ask him.”

Now Dick looks at Jason and puts a hand over the mobile mouthpiece.

“Do you want to come home for a few days?”

“Why the hell not,” Jason says.

“Yeah, we’ll bring him home. No. I'll see you in an hour.”

Dick hangs up and sighs.

“It just figures you'd go kick a hornet’s nest of Neo-Nazis alone.”

“I didn't go looking!” Jason says defensively, his voice thick with exhaustion. “I stumbled into them!”

“Leave off,” Dev says sharply, looking at Dick now. “It's not the bloody time to sort it out.”

Dick’s whole posture changes and he sits on the table near the couch.

“I'm sorry, Jay. I know. We were just really worried.”

“I was mildly concerned,” Damian corrects.

“You little shit,” Jason says, but it comes out full of affection. The audiobook is still playing and Dev pauses it.

“How _did_  you get here?” Dick asks Dev, turning to look at him.

“I'm the sodding doctor,” Dev says with a shrug. “I do my job.”


	6. Devabhaktuni, Kiran. 08/03, #00, REP:06/22 DAY OFF, LOC:WM

“Seven letter word for ‘the brain’s tail’?” Alfie asks, pulling back from a crossword puzzle he is frowning at, a pen pinched between his fingers.

“‘Caudate,’” Dev answers, sipping his tea.

“Hmm.”

Late June rain, warm and mild, patters on the awning above them on the back patio. It is mid-afternoon and the Manor is quiet behind them.

There's a silver pot of tea on the small table and a plate of lemon scones that Dev has been eyeing sidelong every minute or so for the past quarter hour. He's already had two.

“Go on,” Alfie nods, catching Dev’s eye. He puts the pen to the crossword squares and fills in a few letters. He stops mid-word and hmms at the paper again.

“Bloody hell, how are these so good?” Dev asks, giving in and taking another scone.

“Ice cold buttermilk,” Alfie says, “but don't let anyone know I told you. I have an air of mystery to maintain.”

“Mum’s the word,” Dev answers, brushing a crumb off his knee. He leans over to see the crossword puzzle, upside to him across the table. “What the bloody hell’s a ‘jib?’”

“A triangular sail,” Alfie answers, writing rapidly again, “on a sailboat.”

“Have you sailed?” Dev asks curiously, “or is it that just a thing one knows?”

“I have sailed,” Alfie replies, giving Dev a look over the paper. “ _And_ it is a thing one knows.”

“Sod off,” Dev says mildly. “I hate boats.”

“I'm surprised you didn't row in school,” Alfie says and Dev isn't certain this is a joke until he sees the tiny upward turn at the corner of the older man’s mouth.

“Row?” Dev exclaims. “Alfie, I am certain you will find this well disappointing, but I spent my formative uni years doing _embarrassing_ things, like bleaching my hair and going to raves. I even had a piercing once.”

Alfie raises an eyebrow at that, but all he says is, “Indeed.”

For a few minutes, there's nothing but the sound of tea being poured and the scratch of pen across newspaper.

“I was round the other day while you were out,” Dev says, breaking the silence. “I had a go at driving the Tesla.”

“Oh?” Alfie is frowning at the puzzle again. “How was it?”

“Right terrifying. Lovely car. I was quite certain I'd smash it up and never broke the posted speed limit.”

“It is a lovely car,” Alfie agrees. “I prefer it myself these days.”

“Do you now?” Dev asks. “Well, Wayne and Timothy had a day of it. They were well fed up, I think, but I couldn't press the gas without thinking about how much it cost.”

“You could afford one on your salary,” Alfie observes. “Your Ford could stand to be retired.”

“There,” Dev says, putting down the tea to point at Alfie. “It's infected you as well. This bloody cavalier attitude about money. I know I make enough but I'm still not used to it, and my car runs _quite well._  It's not even old.

“The way money is thrown about in this house is bloody staggering. The Cave, the cars, the books, the sailing. And I expect it from Wayne and Timothy. But I should bloody well think you'd know better.”

“Are you quite done?” Alfie asks, setting the crossword puzzle on the table and taking his cooled cup of tea.

Dev sighs.

“I have never sailed with Master Bruce,” Alfie says, a distant look on his face as he sips his tea. “I sailed as a boy.”

“Did you run away to sea, yeah?” Dev asks, taking another scone. “Work your way up from captain’s boy?”

“Culminating in my regrettably short tenure as the Dread Pirate Roberts,” Alfie says with absolute seriousness.

Dev chokes on his lemon scone. Alfie takes up the puzzle again.

“Hm,” Alfie says when Dev has collected himself and taken another long drink of tea. “I fear this puzzle is more suited to you. Eight letters, ‘Roman structure of the brain?’ It may be a pun.”

“I'm shite at crosswords,” Dev says. “‘Aqueduct.’”

“Oh?” Alfie writes it in.

“Of the midbrain. And I'm sorry I've been whinging about money. It's not fair to you. I know Wayne does good with his, or I’d not be able to stand it here.”

“Something's happened,” Alfie prompts, filling in another letter.

Dev swirls his tea in his cup and sighs.

“I had a patient this week refuse surgery for an intraorbital meningioma. He's going blind and it will eventually kill him.”

Alfred doesn't say anything but he's folded the crossword puzzle and set it down on the table, the pen clipped to the flimsy paper.

“I’d met with him twice already, both times with his wife, but he came to my office alone and told me he wasn't going through with it. I had to chase him down in the bloody hallway to find out why.

“He's a stevedore and makes $40,000 a year. And he'd found out his fucking health insurance had denied him coverage for surgery. It isn't a work injury and because of some sodding nonsense with provider changes, they’re using the approximated age of the tumor to claim it’s a pre-existing condition. He has union life insurance, though, and he'd decided he was worth more to his family dead than alive. The bloody hell of it is, on paper, he's right.

“It's $70,000 of debt for him to have the surgery and $100,000 in payout if he dies without it. He said his wife wasn't even talking to him since he'd decided. It's a fucking mess.”

“What did you tell him?” Alfie asks. One hand is wrapped around a cup of tea, two fingers laced under the thin handle, but he hasn't lifted it to drink.

“I told him the hospital would pay for it,” Dev says, a slightly bewildered expression on his face. “I said we had a program for that sort of thing. But it was a bloody lie.”

“That might be an issue,” Alfie says, setting his tea down.

“Mm,” Dev shakes his head and looks down at his hands. “It won't be, because I've paid for it. And you can't tell anyone because it could bloody well get me fired.”

“Kiran,” Alfie says gently, a touch of genuine surprise in the tone, “that was a rather noble thing to do. ‘Mum’s the word.’”

“How do you manage it?” Dev asks, looking up at him. “The unfairness of it? I know I shouldn't compare, but when Wayne went under the knife last year, I'm bloody well certain not one of you gave a thought to the cost. And I see patients who can't think about anything else. Even before they understand how fucking precarious their condition is medically, they're asking me how much it will bloody cost because they might not be able to afford to live. It's absolute bollocks.”

“It is,” Alfie agrees calmly. “Money does not spare anyone illness, but it does make a difference and that is most certainly unfair. But I have seen men wicked with little and wicked with much. I've seen men good in poverty and good in the midst of wealth. Master Bruce could give away every penny he has and it would not solve every problem. It is likely to create new ones. But he does try to do good where he can. You are not unlike him.”

Dev takes a deep breath.

“It's just shite,” he says. “That man was ready to die just to save his family the debt.”

“It is fortunate then, that he had someone with both funds and a heart nearby him, to hear and render aid,” Alfie says, taking up his tea again. He takes a scone in the other hand. “You do actually _have_ the funds, Kiran?”

“I do. It's a blow to me but it doesn't leave me bloody destitute. And sod it all, Alfie,” Dev says, rubbing the corners of his eyes furiously. “I demand you tell me right now. How did you become so bloody wise? You've just sorted me and this has been eating me for days.”

“I have been wealthy and I have been penniless,” Alfie says with a small shrug.

Dev finishes his tea and he thinks Alfie is done, he reaches for the crossword puzzle to look it over, but Alfie’s voice stops him.

“My family had an estate in Sussex,” he says, pursing his lips thoughtfully, as if uncertain if he will say more. Then he takes a bite of the scone and continues: “I had a very happy childhood. I wanted for nothing. My mother and father were lovely people, and I spent a great deal of time out of doors

“But my grandfather was the very last of a dying breed. Our servants were all older, those unable to move on or adjust to the life the younger lot had left to seek. The farms around us were failing or privatizing. When I was sixteen, my grandfather died and left behind a ledger full of debts we had known nothing about. My father was not prepared for the responsibility and invested what little there was left, in hopes it would salvage us. But they were ill-advised investments and failed within the year.

“We sold the estate and moved into town. My mother went back to her mother’s house and my father and his valet, who couldn't bear to leave even though we couldn't pay him, worked at the bank as clerks. My father had set aside a third of the estate’s sale for my schooling, and I, in an act of profound and stupid rebellion, left instead to join a theatre company. And then I fell in love with it and it was worth the nights of bare cupboards after all.”

Dev hasn’t moved for the entirety of the account. He’s leaning forward, hand still over the crossword puzzle, but when it is clear Alfie is done he sits back and blinks.

“Bollocks,” he exhales. “And how in the bloody hell did you end up here? Doing this?”

“That is another story for ano-”

“Alfie,” Dev says, curiosity thrumming in every fibre of his being, “I sat for tea with you for months and did not ask once about the Batman, even though I knew, I bloody well knew. But I’m asking this.”

It seems suddenly crucial to keep the door open, to keep it spilling out, or he’s at real risk of never returning to the subject. There will be no medical crisis to pry it back open.

“If you’d sworn at me,” Alfie says, “I wouldn’t have said another word.”

The older man still seems reluctant, despite the hint of promise.

“My lips are pure, cleaned by coal. I’ll say naught but holy things,” Dev swears. “I am a child on Christmas morning. I want to know how you became Batman’s da.”

That gets a chuckle out of Alfie and he relents.

“These aren’t the happy chapters,” he warns.

“I will weep for you,” Dev says earnestly. “Or look away, whichever you prefer.”

“The latter, most certainly,” Alfie replies, looking mildly offended. “The short of it is, in the year or so after the end of my adolescence, the theatre company was swindled by the manager, went bankrupt and was forced to close, I walked out of my own wedding, and my father, who knew Bruce Wayne’s grandfather through school or somesuch, saw me floundering and asked me to look after the Waynes as a favor to him. I came to the States with the firm belief that it would be a temporary position and then found myself coming up with excuse after excuse as to why I should stay. And now we’re here.”

“Fucking bloody hell,” Dev says, already forgetting his promises about his language. “You weren’t a butler.”

“No,” Alfie says, “I was an actor. I’ve become a butler. It’s been close to forty years, the whole of your own life, and those first decades can hardly matter as much as they once did.”

“But they do,” Dev says, frowning a bit. “The first years always bloody matter.”

“I know,” Alfred says with a small sigh. “There are still days when I do not find it easy to be patient or kind, and I remember that once I was a boy with my own sailboat and a gentle father, that I roamed grassy hillocks and rarely heard an ill word or bad temper toward myself, and that for it, I owe much to the world. ‘To whom much is given.’ Good Lord, look at the time.”

Dev does not look but he does stand and help collect the tea things, despite Alfie’s protests. He goes into the Manor with cups and saucers balanced in one hand, holding the crossword puzzle in front of his face with the other, reading it over.

“Oi, you’ve got ‘ovule’ here but I think it’s ‘basal,’” he says, stepping into the kitchen.

Alfie wipes his hands, already wet from the sink, on a kitchen towel and takes the puzzle from Dev to look it over. He leans over the counter to write, pressing firm inked letters directly atop the old ones.

“Hm,” he says, immediately filling in a few surrounding squares. “If only I were as bad at puzzles as you, Kiran. Then I’d never want for help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there is any canon evidence that Bruce and Alfred have ever gone sailing, not on a yacht but a sailboat, please let me know, haha.
> 
> Also I am aware that I am mildly retconning things for my own purposes BUT alfred's past is murky across canon as it is? Please to forgive.


	7. Brown, Stephanie. 08/11, #05, REP:07/03 LOC:WM

It is barely one in the morning when Dev finishes updating inventory lists in the Cave. He’d expected it to take a bit longer and the tests he’d left running in his own lab don’t need to be checked for another several hours.

He stands in the foyer, keys in his hand, debating. The house is quiet. Alfie is likely snatching a few hours of sleep in the dead of the night work shift, phone at hand for emergencies. The older man has seemed more rested, more engaged, since Wayne relented and began texting Dev directly when he was needed.

To Wayne’s credit, he is a stabilizing presence and other than Damian’s broken arm, the injuries requiring treatment have seen a slight drop in frequency since his return. Dev knows because he’s been quietly working on a plan for forced leave from patrol, tracking the severity, regularity, and reported cause of injuries for each member of the family.

Because this family bloody _needs_ it. Afternoons larking about in posh cars are not enough.

He hasn’t broached the subject with Wayne yet, but he suspects the man will support the idea until they get around to Wayne’s own holiday.

It will probably involve some shouting and forceful playing of the physicker card.

The keys still in his hand, Dev decides that he’ll stick around on the off-chance he’s needed in an hour or so. Timothy’s PS4 will be as good a distraction as his own.

He’s only two feet into the darkened den when Stephanie Brown snaps from the couch,

“Damian, for the last time, go to _bed_.”

She sits up and looks at him, frozen just inside the doorway.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Dr. Dev. He’s been in here like five times already.”

She flops back on the couch.

“I can get out of here,” she says after another second. “I was waiting for Cass but she ended up being busy.”

“Don’t let me run you off. It isn’t my house either,” Dev says, still in the doorway.

There’s a long, awkward silence where neither of them move nor speak.

“Why aren’t you out tonight?” Dev asks. “Just felt like telling the rest to sod off? Hiding a thrilling injury?”

“Ugh,” Stephanie says in reply. “No. It’s nothing.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Dev says sternly, backing out of the room. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Batdoctor’s orders?” Stephanie calls after him. “You know that’s what they’re calling you.”

He stops in the hall, leans his head back in.

“Dick?” He guesses.

She sits up again and looks at him.

“Bruce. And Alfred. But I think it was sarcasm.”

“Bugger all,” he mutters. “It bloody well figures. Do you think I’ll be forced to wear a costume?”

“We could embroider a lab coat,” Stephanie says, sinking onto the couch again. “But to be honest, the mask can get itchy.”

“I’ll just pop home and grab my Cylon cosplay and save us all the trouble,” Dev says.

“You do know they’re the bad guys, right?” Stephanie says.

Dev is already walking down the hall, chuckling. Come to think of it, he does wish quite a bit he did actually have an old Cylon cosplay. Being a robot would be dog’s bollocks.

He makes a trip down to the medical unit again, swings by the kitchen, and returns to the den. He leaves the door wide open on purpose.

“What are you doing?” Stephanie asks when he drops all the gathered items on the low table in front of the couch.

There’s a heating pad, ibuprofen, and a carton of ice cream.

“I am,” Dev says, picking the heating pad up and hunting about for a near outlet, “acting as your doctor.”

“Please tell me you aren’t tracking my menstrual cycles,” Stephanie says, her eyes wide.

“Bloody hell, Stephanie,” he exclaims, plugging the heating pad in beside the couch. He tosses it to her. “I’m not mental. I just have three sisters.”

“Oh,” she relaxes a little again on the couch and accepts the heating pad. “I really can get out of here. I just didn’t feel like going home, but if I’m–”

“Shut it,” Dev says, sitting next to her and popping open the ibuprofen. “I’d say it’s a quite good guess that you don’t medicate often, yeah?”

She shakes her head. “I’m reluctant,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, then,” he replies, handing her the pills and a water bottle. “These should be right effective, Wayne-who-isn’t-a-Wayne.”

“Is that what they’re calling _me_ now?” Stephanie asks, smiling a little. She takes the medicine.

“Just me, but I can toss it about a bit to get it to catch on.”

Dev leans forward on the couch and looks at her for a moment. Despite the hot July air outside, she’s wearing a thick hoodie and sweatpants. She curls herself around the heating pad and sighs, sitting with her legs tucked up against her.

“Right then,” he says, “More doctor business while I’ve got you. Here, tuck in to this ice cream.”

She holds the carton above her head and hands it back to him.

“I can’t eat this,” she says, “it’s Bruce’s.”

He flips the carton over and sure enough, there’s a name on a printed label with one corner smudged.

“Alfred started labeling them after Damian and Jason got into a fight last month,” Stephanie says. “They broke a light in the kitchen.”

“Huh,” Dev says, holding the carton in front of her again. “Give over and have it. It’s the only chocolate. If he’s bothered, I’ll tell him it was me and shout a bit and he’ll leave off.”

Stephanie takes the ice cream with a bit of a grin.

“You’d do that for me?” she asks.

“What? Shout at Wayne? It is one of the brilliant joys of my existence,” he says casually. “I stand about waiting for new reasons.”

“Can I,” Stephanie pauses, poking at the ice cream with her spoon. “Can I ask you a kind of personal question?”

“Before I start in on asking you? Have at it.”

Dev picks up the controller from the table at his elbow and turns the PS4 on, begins idly scrolling through menus.

“So,” Stephanie starts and stops again. “God, I’m so bad at this. But I know Tim won’t ask.”

Now Dev is starting to feel nervous. He’s clicking through menu items without really reading them.

“Bugger me,” he says. “Out with it.”

She jumps a little and he realizes he must have sounded more gruff than he intended.

“Areyougay?” she asks, staring hard at the ice cream in her hands. “Because it’s totally fine if you are I was just curious and oh my god this is none of my business I just couldn’t get an answer out of Tim and when Alfred heard us talking he said no but he made that face he makes, you know, the one when he’s trying to decide how much he can say?”

Dev stops scrolling through the same eight menu options and selects one of them.

“No,” is all he says for a moment, relieved that it was this question and not others.

He remembers standing in naught but his pants and socks in the closet-sized bedroom of his secondary school girlfriend while her parents were out. He remembers watching her take her bra off, her back to him, and thinking, _I bloody ought to be feeling something right now, I think._

He kissed her anyway and left an hour later and didn’t speak to her again for two weeks. When she had cornered him just outside a bus queue, trying to start a row over it, he’d shrugged and said, “I think there’s something wrong with me,” and almost started crying. “Please don’t tell anyone, it’ll get to my da,” he’d pleaded and she had hugged him and left him there.

“Good luck. But if I find you’re having it off with any of the other girls round school, I’ll tell your da myself,” she’d said at the curb before leaving.

Dev didn’t date anyone else for all of secondary. He had immersed himself in trying for perfect A-levels.

At uni, he’d tried again, this time with a boy from his organic chemistry class that he got along well enough with. They took Dev’s car on a trip to see _The Prodigy_ play a show in Trent and afterward, they’d gotten as far as snogging in the backseat of his hatchback before Dev realized all he was thinking about was the voltage required to power the spread of synth instruments on stage at the concert.

The boy had pulled back and looked down at his hands, then said a little accusingly, “I thought you were…”

“Me, too,” Dev had said, sighing. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

They’d gone back to uni and spent the next few terms as flatmates but never spoke about the concert again. Dev would clear out and spend the night in a pub or, later, a uni lab, when Thom brought a boyfriend home.

“You’re ace,” he was told once. “Better than a girl. My last flatmate would stay in and try to talk about Queen. It was a right horror.”

Then one term Thom had gotten serious about someone and spent less and less time at the flat, until Dev rang him and told him not to worry about the rent anymore, would he please come pick up the bloody cat, it’s pissing all over from stress?

Dev finished uni without a flatmate and tried a handful of other dates. Then he’d started postgrad work with a strict no-dating policy and endured five years of jokes about his marriage to the lab, jokes that progressed through the years from good-natured to curious to concerned.

“Just not the sodding ball-and-chain type,” he’d started saying about himself, over pint after pint, until the jokes stopped right before he left for his residency in Cardiff.

He’d started dating casually there, hunting out some sort of companionship, but he was swamped with work and nothing ever lasted.

And then he realizes he’s sitting on a couch in Wayne’s house, his fingers wrapped around a controller, staring at a Netflix menu and Steph is putting an empty ice cream carton on the table.

He shakes himself and mutters, “Sorry, no. I’m not gay.”

“You _super_ spaced out,” she says, an eyebrow raised. “I ate half that container thinking you were pissed at me.”

“I’m not really into anyone,” he says. “I don’t think I have a type.”

“And that’s why Alfred made that face,” she says, more to herself than to him. “I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says. “I just don’t know I’ve ever said it aloud before. I don’t know that Alfie knows.”

She leans forward to give him a look.

“Dr. Dev,” she says, “Alfred knows _everything_.”

Dev claps his hands together and turns to face her. He had noticed a concerning detail when first going over the records for the family, something he’s never heard brought up or referenced by anyone else.

“Alfie doesn’t know bloody everything,” he says with a grim smile. “Which is why I’m here, and it’s my turn to ask questions that would be wildly inappropriate if I weren’t a doctor.”

Now Stephanie looks nervous, fiddling with the strings of her hoodie.

“Okay,” she says.

“How old is the baby this year?”

The look on her face is so agonized and resentful that it cuts him to the quick. It makes him want to ring his youngest sister, apologize for falling out of touch, ask how she’s doing and how his nephew is getting along in school.

“Who told you?” she asks, glaring at him. “Did Tim say something?”

“Stephanie,” he says gently, “it’s in your medical files.”

He waits to see if he’s going to have to bully ahead or not.

“Three,” she says quietly after a long silence. “She’ll be three this year. And nobody ever asks me, but I think about her every day. How am I supposed to bring that shit up in conversation, though? ‘Oh don’t mind me, I’m just thinking about the kid I abandoned.’”

“Adoption is hardly abandonment,” Dev says, raising an eyebrow. “What you did is a bloody hard thing to do.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie says softly. “Tim used to tell me that sometimes. And you think in a family as overrun with adoption as this one is, it’d be easy to bring up. But it makes it harder.”

Stephanie is crying now and Dev was braced for it, he knew he’d be pushing buttons, but he feels helpless all the same.

“Sometimes, I look at Damian and I can see how hurt he is, how angry he is at Talia, and all I can think about is that someday a little girl is going to feel that way about me and I don’t even get to try to explain it was to keep her safe. She’ll just spend her whole life wondering if I thought she was worthless. How do you talk to a family full of abandoned kids when _you’re_ the one who walked away?

“Damian can be a little shit but I try so hard to be nice to him. I’m not his mom, but _nobody_ around here has a mom and if I can be _almost_ a mom to him, make his childhood a little closer to stable, then maybe that will make up for what I did to her.”

She calms down a little and sniffles. Her voice is a little detached when she speaks again.

Dev has not touched her, not reached out a hand or offered a hug-- he is a professional.

“Sometimes if I’m here at night, I’ll remind Damian to brush his teeth, even if I know Alfred already told him to, even if I know he already did, just because I’m hoping that whoever she’s with is brushing _her_ teeth every night. Is that stupid?”

“No,” Dev says, running his thumb around the controller joystick over and over again. “It’s not stupid.”

“And it’s really selfish,” she says in a tiny voice, her hands wrapped in the ends of her hoodie sleeves and pressed against her face. “But some days I think about her and instead of feeling guilty, I’m relieved, because I think I’ve spent my whole life just raising myself and I’m tired. God, I’m an awful person. And these fucking cramps.”

She shifts on the couch, still sniffling, and moves the heating pad.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “To dump on you. I’m just not used to anyone bringing it up.”

“I asked,” Dev says, setting the controller down. “As the family doctor, I have serious reservations about the emotional stability of basically everyone. You ought to have someone about to lend an ear. You aren’t an awful person. And give us a look at your section scar.”

“What?” Stephanie glances over at him and he seizes the opening lent by the shock of topic transition.

“Lie back,” he says, standing and motioning with a flourish to the couch. “Your section scar. I want to see it.”

“Dev,” she says, and it does not escape his attention that this is the first time she’s left “doctor” off his name like the others usually do.

“C’mon, then,” he says. “We can wait for Cass or go down to the med bay, or I can look it over right here and let you cuddle with the heating pad again right off. I promise you my intentions are purely medical.”

He is acutely aware of the fact that he is a forty-year-old man alone in a dim room with a nineteen-year-old girl. He is also acutely aware of the fact that she could easily best him within seconds if there was any sort of physical struggle. If he’s startling her now, it’ll only get them through it faster and with less hedging, so he doesn’t feel too wretched.

She doesn’t move immediately but she does move, stretching out on the couch and sliding the heating pad off at the last second. She pulls up her hoodie and tugs down the hem of her sweats, just enough to show off the curved line across her abdomen.

He crouches by the couch and pulls a glove out of his pocket and snaps it out.

“Do you always just have those?” she asks.

“Always,” he says, but he actually got them when he got the ibuprofen.

He prods gently across the scar line and tuts at it.

“They’ve been worse since the section, yeah? Your cycles?”

“The worst,” she says, pulling her shirt back down.

“It was a fast job,” he tells her. “Sloppy. They left good bit of scar tissue underneath. Did you pull your staples after?”

“A few,” she admits, sitting up and grabbing the heating pad again. “Did I mess it up? They sort of rushed me through the six week check-up. I skipped all the ones after that.”

Dev puts his hands on his hips, standing there, frowning at her and thinking. She looks up once at him and then not again.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “It’s not my field, but I’m not inept, and I think they could have done with tighter stitches. There’s a gynecologist in Maine. She’s not anything bloody special but I sliced a tumor out of her skull a few years ago. She’d probably give you a check-up without a lot of questions if you’d drive up there.”

“You say such lovely things,” Steph says, moaning and laughing into the couch at the same time. “A nothing bloody special gynecologist and a sliced up skull.”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t get girls,” Dev retorts, dropping back down onto the couch. He kicks at her leg with an outstretched foot. “Just that I didn’t care to. What are we watching?”

“Watching?” Steph echoes, glancing at the television.

“Well, you can hardly expect me to leave you in such a weakened state,” Dev says. “I’m a doctor. Isn’t in my nature. And after putting you through the mental ringer, I can at the least keep you company til Cass is back.”

“I’m going to pick something really dumb,” Stephanie warns him, taking the controller from his hand. “Feel free to bail.”

While she’s typing into the search box, Dev is debating. There are so many lines blurred here for him, in the sharp divide between professional responsibility and personal friendship.

 _Aw, bugger me,_ he finally thinks.

“I know what it’s like to grow up with parents about and still feel like you’re on your own,” he says. “It’s fucking hell.”

“Thank you,” she says, her finger pressed on a button that she hasn’t let go yet, “for asking about her. For letting me vent.”

“I just wanted to force you into a good cry,” he says. “For research.”

Stephanie laughs and reaches up to pat his head, as if he were a puppy.

“You’re a good Batdoctor,” she says. “And I’m going to make you watch old episodes of _The Barefoot Contessa_.”


	8. Algernon. 00/00, ###, REP:07/10 LOC:WM

The mobile buzzing in his pocket does not immediately pull Dev’s attention away from his work. He is studying droplets of blood reacting to an isolated toxin from the database in the Cave, his eye pressed to the microscope. He _hms_ at it, pulls back to look at the numbered file associated with the toxin, reads over a part, looks at the slide again. He swears and angrily crosses something out in the ten-year-old file and writes in the margin in slanted black print.

It is the middle of the afternoon and he had spent the morning in his own office at the hospital bent over a paper he was revising and frankly, never wanted to see again if he could help it. The research was brilliant but the writing and editing made him want to bash his head against the wall or get smashingly drunk.

So he escaped to the Cave and is slogging through the updates to toxicity reports, modifying where newer medical practices or tools altered treatments or approaches. Just in case. It is monotonous, medical-journal-crawling work and it is still better. _Fun_ even.

But his mobile is still vibrating so he finishes another notation and looks at it. He raises an eyebrow.

It's a text from Cassandra Cain. Her number is in his mobile but he doesn't recall her ever messaging or calling him before. There are two texts, actually: one a brown-skinned bicep emoji and then a mouse, and then the words _EAST HALL BALLROOM HELP._

Dev regards this suspiciously but this is not the sort of house to disregard emergency texts in. Cass doesn't seem to be the sort frightened by or needing rescue from a mouse, but he actually has no idea what the emojis mean.

So he reseals the toxin, removes the mask he's been wearing, and heads upstairs. He's not running, exactly, but his walk is covering distance rather quickly.

The East Hall is often shut up, used for more formal and public occasions or storage. There's an entire second kitchen out here, fitted with stainless steel dish sanitizers and a six-burner oven and he takes a shortcut through it rather than staying in the decorated halls.

The ballroom is empty, but there’s music coming through a set of open French doors. He hurries over, going through the large room with the dark wood trim and pale yellow wallpaper and hardly seeing it. He strides outside onto the patio.

There's a ladder propped against the manor right next to the open doors and up on the roof the music shuts off.

A head pops over the side of the roof. It's Cass.

“Dev,” she says. “You have arms. Come up.”

“What's wrong?” he asks, but she pulls her head back and doesn't answer.

He rattles the ladder first to see how stable it is and lets curiosity drive him up; he doesn't look down and he doesn't open his eyes until he's over the lip of the roof, on the flat expanse over the ballroom with the massive gray air conditioning units and boxy skylight risers.

There's a stereo speaker sitting on a metal folding chair and a large square of gymnastics mats spread out next to it. Cass is in what clearly looks like dance clothes, a leotard and short skirt, and there's a boy by the stereo wearing nothing but spandex tights and a thin white tank top. He's stretching and looking pensive.

“这是你的爸爸吗？” the boy asks, nodding to Dev and looking confused.

“不是,” Cass tells him, taking Dev by the hand and leading him across the roof. He's just glad he can't see over the edge.

“他是我的家的医生,” she says to the boy. She looks at Dev and tells him, “This is Liu Bao.”

The boy is regarding him appreciatively. He's only an inch or two taller than Cass and he is looking over Dev’s arms.

Dev has literally no idea what's going on and wonders if it's an episode of _The Twilight Zone_ he's stumbled into. He feels like whatever the arm and mouse meant, he's terribly misunderstood.

“We need help,” Cass says.

“I'm rot at dance,” he tells her. “I've no rhythm and I'm all gangling limbs.”

“Not with that,” she smiles and ducks her head.

“With the rat,” Liu Bao tells him. He speaks slowly as if thinking hard about which words to use.

“I'm sorry, did you say ‘rat’?” Dev asks, looking about him. Maybe they _do_ want him to off a rodent, which he will bloody well be refusing to do. His lab work over the years has caused him to regard rats with considerable fondness and he is reluctant to cause them harm outside of usage in medical research.

“Come,” Cass says, pulling his arm again. Then he sees the other ladder propped up against the slanted section of roofing, leading up to the peaked roofs of the third floor. “We can't reach but your arms are like tools.”

Dev isn't going to argue with that; it's oddly flattering. And she tugs at him again and he knows she wasn't failing to use the right word. It was intentional usage.

She gestures broadly to the ladder and he breathes in and out once, then starts climbing. All he has to remember is to not look down. Not look down.

Not look down.

Cass follows him and when he's at the top, she slips past him and steps easily across the peaked section, balancing like it's as easy as breathing. She motions for him to follow and very slowly and reluctantly, he does.

He picks his way across the slate roof tiles, staring straight at each spot he will step next. The roof is a broad slope that is probably considered gradual but seems incredibly, impossibly steep to him. Cass is leading him closer and closer to the edge, where the corner of building flanking the patio meets the outer wall.

Dev is so absolutely focused on keeping his balance that they are nearly to the edge before he registers the tiny squeaking noise. Cass crouches at the lip of the roof as easily as she might sprawl on a rug. A rug on the ground. A rug not here, in the air, three stories up.

He suppresses a small groan.

Dev is willing to admit his deficiencies in so many areas around this oddly skilled family, but there is no sodding way he is going to be shown up by a slip of a girl just sitting on a roof.

He edges slowly down to his knees to look where she's looking and it requires looking down. His stomach flips at the glimpse of patio and grass below, but he's immediately distracted by what Cass is showing him.

There is an ornate, iron-work grating around the corner of the run-off drain and down at the bottom, shivering in a small pocket of old leaves and twigs, is a young rat. Hardly more than a baby. It is brown and dirty tan instead of white, but a rat all the same.

“I can't reach,” Cass says, and she rattles the grating a little. “It's not stable for climbing. My arms are short. Liu Bao is the same.”

“How did you even bloody find it?” he asks, testing the tiles along the edge with one hand.

“Liu Bao heard it. He has good ears. Just the wrong arms.”

Dev glances back toward safety-- across the eight meters of roofing they'd crossed just from the ladder.

“Bloody hell,” Dev mutters.

He looks back at the rat and he forgets how high up he is. It is circling in the leaves, putting a tiny pink paw up on the grating and then scooting back.

Dev eases himself down into his stomach along the edge of the roof and stretches his arm down into the grating. He holds his hand still for a moment, trying to brace himself in case the bloody little beast decides to bite him.

But there's just the tickle of whiskers and a minuscule nose and it crawls onto his hand to sniff around. He tightens his grip and pulls it up.

Cass is waiting with shining eyes and cupped hands and he drops the rat into her palms.

Behind and below them, there's a shout.

“What the hell is going on? Who are you?”

It's Wayne and he's apparently found Liu Bao. The boy is speaking rapidly in Chinese. Cass is holding her face close to the rat, talking softly to it. She leans forward and pats Dev's cheek.

“Hero,” she says.

Then she stands, spins on her toes on one roof tile, and springs up the incline, calling, “那是我的爸爸!”

Wayne is speaking in Chinese and then asks in English, “What is going on up here? I just got home from work and the security sensors on the roof were going crazy.”

“Recital rehearsal,” Cass calls back. “Good acoustics.”

Dev is now no longer in awe that Liu Bao heard the squeaking; he's instead wondering how he missed it. The sound carries bloody well up here for some reason.

“You aren't dancing up there, are you?” Wayne asks.

“Dev is up there. He saved a rat.”

Even from where he is on the roof, his face turned toward the peak, he can hear Wayne’s sigh.

“Don't let Damian see that.”

“It won't matter,” she replies. “Algernon is for Jason.”

Dev lifts his head so he can prop his arms underneath him and crawl, then walk, up the roof. But when he does, his vision fills with the drop to the ground below and his head swims. There's no rat to distract him. He squeezes his eyes shut against the height, against the sudden memory of another roof.

He remembers the year he was ten and he'd gone with his da to visit his da’s mum, his grandmum, who was caught in the beginning stages of dementia. She was fiercely stubborn and refused to abandon the tall country house she'd bought late in life, where she and Dev’s daadaa kept separate bedrooms until his death the year before.

The house had been a disaster. Three rooms were perfectly clean and kept and the rest were falling into dusty ruin, forgotten open windows letting in rain and the books smelling of mildew and the upstairs bedrooms full of cobwebs and the ceiling corners stained with water rot dripping down from the roof.

“The gutters are clogged,” Dev’s da had said, taking one look at it. “Go on up there and clean them out.”

Dev had run like the wind up the stairs, thrilled at being allowed _on the roof_ by himself because he was ten and feeling grown up and warmed by the chance to prove himself.

He'd made it as far as the first overflowing gutter before he saw the paved street below and scooted back up the roof toward the attic window, breathing hard and nearly sick all over the gritty shingles. Some of them were slippery under his feet or hands with greenish moss or fungus.

He had still been there ten minutes later when his da had leaned his head out the window and snapped,

“Why aren't you working?”

Dev had just looked at him.

“Go on, then,” his da had said.

Dev had shaken his head.

His da had scowled fiercely at him and slammed the window shut. When Dev had tried it a few minutes later, it was locked.

When the sun was sinking in the sky, his da had come back once and looked through the glass and pointed once toward the gutters and left again.

He didn't come back the whole night.

Dev had sat in the gathering dark breathing through his nostrils with his lips pressed together and trying not to cry because had been ten years old and not a baby. His heart had thumped against his ribcage with such force he doesn't remember feeling hungry once that night.

Dev had scraped the gutters out sometime when the moon was low in the west, and then sat against the window until the sun came up. His da was an early riser.

But it was his grandmum who had let him in. He'd all but toppled backward into the grimy, damp attic and sat on his knees breathing hard, exhausted from sitting awake all night. His 1985 India World Cup cricket t-shirt had clung to his skin, cold with sweat and dew.

“Oi, ducky,” she’d scolded, an absent look in her eyes, “you've never been a stupid lad, Sidney. Don't play out there, it's much too high.”

“Dev, are you alright?”

It is Wayne’s voice that jolts him back to the present and he recoils from the edge, shoving himself up the slate on his stomach.

“Quite,” he replies casually, “just enjoying the bloody view.”

He sodding hopes he sounds casual, anyway.

“Wait, no,” he hears Wayne exclaim. “Cass, I'm not holding this!”

Then Wayne says something to Liu Bao in Chinese.

Dev has his eyes closed again. He can't quite see the ground anymore but he could see the bloody tops of the bloody trees when he looked over, so he settles for not looking at all.

But he will eventually have to move and he knows this. He's got minutes, maybe less, before he gets into the territory of awkward excuses and flimsy explanations.

Dev opens his eyes and if he hadn't been already bloody well paralyzed he would have jumped back.

Cass is lying down on the roof between him and the edge, just looking at him with her serious brown eyes

He just looks at her.

“You are steady hands,” she says.

Dev sucks in a lungful of hot July air and pushes himself up off the roof to his feet. He walks up the slate tiles to the peak and then along the peak to the ladder and he climbs down. She drops down from one roof to the next alongside the ladder, landing lightly on her feet.

Wayne is in a suit from work still, holding the baby rat out at arm’s length in one hand.

“Bloody hell,” Dev says, finding his voice. “Give us the rat before you strangle it.”

Wayne dumps the rat into Dev’s outstretched fingers.

“Careful. It might be rabid.”

“Algernon’s not rabid,” Dev says, holding it up to look at the little black eyes. “Come along, Cass. I've a spare cage in my lab.”

She says something to Liu Bao and Dev buttons the rat in his top pocket to climb down the second ladder.

There's the flap of gym mats being folded on the roof.

“Why did you get _Dev_ to come help you?” Wayne is asking Cass as Dev’s foot hits the patio. He steps out into the grass of the yard. He wants to stretch out on the ground and feel dirt in his beard but he crosses his arms to wait instead.

“He has arms,” Cass says.

“I'm not even going to argue with that. Stay off that slate from now on. It's unstable.”

Dev sits down.

He gets the rat out of his pocket and lets it crawl around on his hand. It’s bloody adorable.

Liu Bao joins him on the grass and watches the rat.

“Thank you,” the boy says, stretching one leg and then the other so he's doing a split.

“It was nothing,” Dev answers. “Absolutely sodding nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation:  
> Liu: this is your dad?  
> Cass: no.  
> Cass: he's my family's doctor
> 
> Cass: that's my dad!


	9. Wayne, Timothy Drake. 07/19, #07 REP:07/19 LOC:VERNON SP

“Sod it, Timothy, just pick one already,” Dev says, laughing. They’re standing in front of a metal rack of video games and Timothy has both hands shoved in his pockets.

“Dev, I really don’t–”

“I’m buying you a game and it’s settled. It’s why we even bothered going out,” Dev squats down to look at a lower display. He pulls one off and hands it up.

“Iko?” Timothy says, snatching the game. “ _Nobody_ has Iko.”

“Happy birthday,” Dev says, standing again. “What are you now, anyway? Eighteen? Full adult.”

“I’ve been emancipated for a year,” Timothy says, flipping the game case over to look at the back. Then he grumbles, “And I’m seventeen.”

“Timothy. Timothy Wayne. I am rot at _many_ things, but maths is not one of them. You’ve been seventeen.”

Dev leads him away from the display to the register, and gives the bored employee a cursory nod. The man barely looks up from his comic book while he rings up the game.

Timothy sighs explosively and hunches his shoulders.

“Bruce was going through paperwork last month,” he says. “And he found my birth certificate. _Apparently_ my mother lied about my age to enroll me in preschool a year early and then forgot to tell me. Or anyone else.”

The clerk looks up at that, as he swipes Dev’s card through a magnetic reader.

“You really _don’t_ have to get that,” Timothy insists, even though Dev is already accepting the receipt. “I can pay you back.”

“Leave off,” Dev says. “It’s not every year you celebrate your seventeenth birthday again.”

Timothy takes the bag and grumbles at him as they leave the store.

“Thanks,” he says sullenly.

“Your gratitude is overwhelming,” Dev says, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Lunch?”

“Why not,” Timothy says despondently. “You’re coming for dinner, right? Alfred is making donuts.”

“I’ve not been invited,” Dev says, walking ahead when Timothy stops in his tracks.

“What? Of course you are. Alfred must have assumed you–”

Dev looks over his shoulder and grins.

“Damn it, Dev,” Timothy exclaims, jogging to catch up. “I’m already having a weird day. I think Alfred picked donuts so he wouldn’t have to figure out what to do about candles.”

“Let’s call it 17.5,” Dev says, pulling the driver’s side door to his hatchback open. “Or 17 Ver. 2.0? Come along, get in.”

“It’s _funny_ to you,” Timothy gasps, standing by the car. “This is a whole year of my life and you’re _joking_ about it.”

Dev has a hand on the door and he puts a foot back out.

“Timothy,” he says. “Are you really bothered? Actually miffed?”

“Yes!” Timothy says miserably. “I mean…I already have an apartment. It doesn’t change anything for school. But I’ve basically been lied to since I was three. Or two. I don’t even know.”

Dev gets back out of the car and looks down at him.

“Timothy,” he says gently. “Get in the bloody car. We’ve places to go.”

The boy scowls at him for a minute and then relents and takes the passenger seat.

“Where are we going?” Timothy asks after Dev has been driving for a few minutes.

“We’re off to your flat. You need shoes,” Dev says, turning at a light.

“I have shoes,” Timothy says, looking down at his feet.

“You need shoes you can bloody walk in, mate. No more questions.”

“Dev,” Timothy sighs. “I hate surprises.”

“But you are a curious little bugger and I am a sadist,” Dev answers. He turns the radio on and lets Timothy stew in the passenger seat. The boy alternates between frowning out the window and looking sidelong at him.

At Timothy’s apartment, Dev finds water bottles and starts to fill them up in the sink while Timothy goes to hunt for shoes. He’s only filled up one when Timothy calls,

“No! You come pick a pair. I don’t even know what I’m getting shoes for.”

Dev studies the pile in the closet and sighs.

“Bloody hell, are any of these _real_ shoes?”

“They’re all real shoes,” Timothy says defensively.

“No, they aren’t,” Dev grumbles, grabbing one of the only pairs with laces. “They’re slippers.”

“You sound awfully old for a man who wears Chucks with his lab coat,” Timothy says, grinning for the first time in almost an hour. “Crotchety, even.”

“I wear a _classic_ trainer,” Dev says. “Now put those on and let’s go. I’m well determined to not be late for Alfred’s donuts and we’ve still a bit of a drive.”

“How far are–”

“No. More. Questions,” Dev says. “Hurry it up.”

In the car, Timothy opens his mouth and starts to ask five more times over the thirty minute drive but cuts himself off each time.

They drive further and further out of Gotham until they’re on winding roads cutting up and down hills. There’s a slight breeze as they climb into the mountains and Dev rolls the windows down. The pine trees are thick with the scent of warm sap and the oaks and maples are heavy with the dark green mature leaves of mid-summer.

Dev turns at an unmarked road and a minute later they approach a brown sign with wood-burned letters and a state seal.

“We have a state park?” Timothy asks, sitting forward and watching the sign as they go by.

“It’s always the imports who know these things,” Dev says, “because we get here and have to get out a bloody map to find anything. You lot give sodding poor directions, like ‘oh, it’s right by the old McDonalds, Dev, the one that caught fire once.’ But if you have to bloody look up where Lower James street is, then you find other things, too.”

“Huh,” Timothy says. “So, what are–”

“Ah, no questions, mate.”

“We’re here!” Timothy shouts, twisting in his seat to look at the receding sign. “I’m pretty sure I’m into question territory by now.”

“It’s driving you right mad, yeah?” Dev grins.

“You _are_ a sadist. If you’re planning on murdering me out here, I just want you to know I’m basically a weapon. Even without the suit,” Timothy says.

“You are bloody terrifying,” Dev says. “All four feet of you.”

Timothy sputters for a second and then gives Dev a glare that should prompt him to apologize and beg forgiveness, possibly on his knees. But he tousles his hair instead.

“You’ll show me mercy,” Dev tells him, “because I’d not last a minute in a fight with you and I bloody well know it. You _are_ right terrifying. Honest.”

“I should kick you in the head,” Timothy mutters. “Just to shut you up.”

“When I park,” Dev says, “you are going to do precisely that.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Timothy warns. “I’m basically a bundle of impulsive stress right now and I might actually do it.”

“Hiking,” Dev says, relenting. “We’re going hiking.”

“Oh,” Timothy says, relaxing. “That’s not that bad.”

The narrow paved road through the woods has gated utility access gravel roads that Dev passes without slowing. A few places, there are Caution: Pedestrian signs and trail crossings. After a few miles, the road ends in a large gravel car park with a small bathroom and ranger station at the edge. The lot only has three or four other cars in it, and one looks like it’s been there for a while, a white t-shirt hanging limp from the window.

When they climb out of the car, Dev says, “Give us a minute, let me change my trainers,” and opens the boot of the car. Packed into one corner is a backpack and Dev drags it toward himself to unzip it. He pulls out a pair of hiking boots and sits down on the bumper of the car to put them on, tossing his trainers behind him into the car boot.

“Oi, Timothy,” he calls to the boy, who has wandered toward the edge of the cleared woods. “Come tuck in to a granola bar. We’ve not had lunch.”

“You and Alfred getting along makes more and more sense all the time,” Timothy says, hopping over a parking barrier to join him at the back of the car. He takes the offered protein bar from Dev’s backpack and peels back the thin foil. He takes a bite while surveying the wooded hills around them.

“Where are we going?” Timothy asks, nodding at the different trail heads around them.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dev says, chewing a bar that is an approximation of already bad American chocolate. It’s nearly inedible but he figures the 20 grams of protein make up for it. “Not the point.”

He shrugs the backpack onto his shoulders and ducks into the front to snag the water bottles. He takes off toward an uphill trail with long strides and Timothy runs to catch up with him.

“I can take one of those,” Timothy says, reaching for a water bottle.

“Oi,” Dev says, pulling it out of reach. There’s a flat stretch of grass and a few picnic tables at the trailhead and he plunks the water bottles down on weathered, painted wood. “You owe me a kick in the head.”

Timothy’s eyes widen, then narrow.

“Dev, I’m not kicking you in the head.”

“Mm,” Dev says, running his tongue along his teeth while he stares up at a tree hanging with old, knotty vines. “Pretty sure you are, mate.”

He looks back down to Timothy and grins.

“Show off a bit,” he says. “It’ll be right good for your bloody self-esteem. I trust you to not inflict serious injury. That is…if I’ve not been mislead, and you _can_ kick this high.”

Dev is a curious person.

Dev does not get to see more than casual sparring; he is mostly privy to only the aftermath of battle.

Dev _might_ be a sodding stupid man.

Timothy’s eyes take on a dangerous and gleeful glint.

“Alright,” he says off-handedly. “Stretch your arm out.”

Dev does so, holding it level along the ground.

“No,” Timothy says, “ _above_ your head.”

“Pff,” Dev says, but he does so.

When Timothy backs away, eyeing the picnic table a few meters from Dev, Dev looks up at his own hand.

“Timothy,” he says, trying not to sound doubtful, “that’s well two and a half meters up, yeah?”

Timothy doesn’t answer. He’s running.

He jumps once meters away and kicks his foot against the edge of the picnic table and then does a _bloody flip_ already well above Dev’s head.

When he extends his foot, panic swallows Dev.

“Shite, Tim, my hand!” he yelps, closing his eyes and turning his head. He balls his hand into fist but doesn’t lower it, frightened of the effects of uninterrupted momentum.

The kick on his knuckles is just a tap, though, and then Timothy’s other foot lands a little more roughly on Dev’s shoulder and the boy drops down behind him.

“Don’t,” Timothy says, “antagonize me.”

When Dev turns, the expression on Timothy’s face isn’t a grin but the satisfied amusement of a much older man. It’s Wayne’s expression.

“Bollocks,” Dev says, shaking his hand even though it feels fine. “Are you quite certain you don’t fly?”

“I don’t fly,” Timothy says, grinning now.

“Bollocks,” Dev says again, half to himself.

“Are we hiking or are we not hiking?” Timothy asks, tossing a water bottle at Dev. Dev catches it against his chest.

“Incroyable,” he says, looking at Timothy with a bit of pride, though there isn’t any reason for _him_ to feel that way. Then he shakes himself, “Right, then. Keep up.”

They hike the marked trail for over an hour, chatting idly or falling into deep silence as they scramble over low boulders and pick their way over fallen trees and among craggy old roots. Dev had brought them out here for Timothy but isn’t immune to the good it does him in the meantime.

His boots are well-worn and this is a familiar trail.

When they reach a plateau with a bright green water pump after a series of sharp dips and steep climbs, Dev shrugs the backpack off and starts working the handle of the pump.

They refill the water bottles and sit on a boulder in the shaded grove of towering trees. Dev takes some time to catch his breath but Timothy looks so at ease he could have just rolled out of bed.

“I’ve not forgotten,” Dev says, “that you were well miffed earlier.”

Timothy sighs.

Dev leans back against the pale gray rock and points to a spectacularly giant tree with an enormous canopy.

“That tree is well ancient,” he says. “Probably here when your sodding ancestors threw off our benevolent hand.”

Timothy gives him a look.

“Dev,” he says. “You’re Indian. I feel like your criticism of colonialism should be even harsher than mine.”

“Shut it,” Dev says. “It’s true but I’m being poetic and you’re bloody muddling my point.”

“Alright, alright,” Timothy says, frowning at the rock beneath them. “Things are old, you’re old, youth doesn’t last forever, it’s just a stupid number, I get it.”

“Well, shite, then,” Dev says, letting some irritation creep into his tone. “You’ve well mastered self-counseling. I’ll leave you to it.”

They sit for another minute in tense silence. Dev gives the boy time to just fizzle out on himself.

“Timothy,” he says, when he can see the shift in the boy’s face. “My point is that it’s not about the bloody dates. You’ve disregarded your own age for quite some time now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Timothy says miserably.

“So,” Dev says, taking a swig from his water bottle. “This isn’t about the numbers. Tell me about your mum.”

“Ugh,” Timothy answers. “No. I mean. Yes. But there’s not much to say. Basic rich kid sob story. I loved her, you know, and she loved me, but she was…distracted? Busy. I think she was just doing what everyone else did. I spent a lot of time with nannies, but, um, not like Alfred. Never any one person for long. And then I went to boarding schools. So I didn’t really see much of her.”

“But you’re well angry at her today,” Dev says.

“It’s stupid to be mad that she isn’t here when she was hardly ever here,” Timothy says, scrubbing at his eyes. “These bugs are awful,” he adds. “And it’s stupid to be mad that she lied about my age and probably forgot she did it, when I probably needed to be in school already anyway.”

Dev claps a hand on the boy’s back and then pulls him in to hug him about the shoulders. He’s never hugged Timothy that he can recall and this isn’t even a proper hug, but the boy leans into it.

“It’s perfectly alright to be bloody stupid sometimes,” he says. “You’ve a need to take your turn feeling fucking plebeian.”

Timothy laughs and shoves him away.

“I know what I want for my birthday,” he says suddenly, sitting up. He looks at Dev.

“I’ve bought you a present,” Dev says, alarmed.

“I transferred money back into your account at my apartment,” Timothy says. “What I want is for you to tell me about yourself. We’ve been hanging out for months but you never talk about _you_.”

“You little shite,” Dev exclaims.

Timothy shrugs.

Dev puts a hand over his eyes and then slides it down his face, his mouth askew.

“Right then,” he says. “I’ve a mum and a da and three younger sisters. I’ve also got forty years of history. Interrogate me or I won’t know where to begin.”

“How often do you hike?” Timothy asks immediately. “You know this trail already. You didn’t look for markers at all on the way up and I had to look sometimes.”

Dev is relieved. They’re starting with easy questions and maybe it will stay there.

“Once a week. Sometimes every other if I’m well swamped. Usually when I’m sorting research snags or deciding how to tackle a surgical problem. Sometimes after a surgery goes off or just when I feel the need of it.”

“Hm,” Timothy says. “You weren’t joking when you told Bruce to try nature therapy.”

“I bloody well was not!” Dev says. “I’ve papers about it.”

“Okay,” Timothy says thoughtfully. “Video games and hiking and no friends.”

“Sod off,” Dev says. “You can’t prove it.”

“So, what about England? Life before?”

“Eh,” Dev says, lying back on the rock. The leaves are blocking out most of the sun and when he closes his eyes, the small shadows dance across his vision. “I had mates. Most of them leftover from med school. Was in a football club.”

“You play football?” Timothy sounds surprised.

“I played cricket in school,” Dev says. “But the football club was all doctors and we were shite. If anyone got hurt, we’d stop and stand around and talk about patients or cases.”

“Do you miss them?” Timothy asks.

“My mates? Yeah. But I’ve money to do research here.”

“What about your sisters?”

“Do I miss them?” Dev asks in response.

“Yeah. I know you Skype with one of them. And that she calls you Sidney. You were talking to her that one time I stopped by your office.”

“Leena,” Dev says. “And she calls me Sidney because our grandmum did, and they were close. My middle’s after my grandmum’s brother. Leena and I talk every few months. She’s only a year younger. Kamala’s the baby and we’ve never gotten along well. And Rani doesn’t talk to the lot of us at all, not since she married a Canadian Mormon the last year of secondary. I don’t even know where she lives. That’s the condensed version of the lot of them.”

“Do you ever go back to visit the others? Your friends?”

“This is a right interrogation,” Dev says, cracking an eye open to look at him. Timothy is still sitting up, hunched forward over his knees. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Birthday present. Answer the question.”

Dev debates arguing this point again but he doesn’t think he’d be able to keep the money out of his account even if he tried. And it is sort of nice to talk, maybe, just a bit.

“No,” he says. “Leena lives all over. She leads mountain climbs with her husband, so she’s hardly ever home. And I’ve not gone back once to see anyone else.”

“Why?”

And it lasted all of a few questions. They’re veering into territory that Dev doesn’t want to unsettle the landscape of. He answers anyway.

“Because if I went back, I’d have to go see my mum or I’d be wracked with bloody guilt.”

“…and seeing your mom is a bad thing because?” Timothy asks this slowly, drawing out the syllables. He knows he’s openly fishing and he won’t look at Dev. His shoulders are tense, like he expects to be told off.

Dev sighs and closes both eyes again.

“Seeing my mum would mean seeing my da, and I’m a forty-year-old coward.”

Timothy turns quickly, Dev can hear him move. He doesn’t look but he knows Timothy is staring at him.

“He’s a hard man. Military,” Dev says, trying to console the boy. “Strict. That’s all.”

“Bruce can be a hard-ass sometimes,” Timothy says empathetically.

Dev sits up at that.

“No,” Dev says. “Not like that. Bruce actually likes the lot of you.”

“Dev,” Timothy says, a little scolding, “I’m sure your own dad _likes_ you.”

“No,” Dev says again, standing. He shouldn’t have ever started answering questions. He should have ended it with talk of his old mates. He should have started in on the college stories then, filling the time.

Timothy stands with him but he doesn’t insist again. He stands nearby while Dev refills the water bottles once more.

“Okay,” Timothy says. “I’m really sorry, Dev. That sucks.”

“It’s alright,” Dev says, evening his voice carefully. And it is. He knows Timothy means well. He stands and caps the water bottle in his hands and faces Timothy. “You’re bloody fine, mate. Don’t worry about it.”

“So, we do the easy part now?” Timothy asks, taking the water bottle from him. “Hiking down?”

“Oi, what makes you think we’re done?” Dev asks, his grin returning. “This is a sodding loop. We’ve kilometers yet.”

Timothy groans and drags Dev’s backpack off the forest floor. He puts it on before Dev can take it, adjusting the straps as he walks ahead.

“Alright,” he says, “Since you’re determined to torture me with the outdoors, let’s go.”

“Torture?” Dev exclaims, looking around. “This is well near heaven, Timothy Wayne. If you can’t see it, then we’re stopping for a hammock on the way to the manor and I’m bloody well strapping you in between trees until you fucking appreciate it.”

“Don’t shout,” Timothy says, stepping onto the trail across the grove. “I want to see if we can find a snake if I have to be out here. And Dev?”

“Yeah?” Dev replies, momentarily distracted by the thought of snakes.

“Thanks,” Timothy says. “I’m whining but I needed this.”

“Timothy,” Dev says seriously, stomping back a briar they’ve come to on the path, “you’ve an ignorant mind, thanks to your American upbringing, but it’s pronounced ‘whinging.’ And you’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is a very long chapter about my faves.


	10. Devabhaktuni, Kiran. 08/03, #00, REP:07/26 TEA, LOC:WM

The heat the last week of July is so intense that even after driving all the way from the hospital to the manor with the air conditioning cranked up, the dash of Dev’s hatchback is still hot to the touch when he pulls into the drive.

He’s an hour early for tea, but he finished a consultation early and has been antsy for days and didn’t feel like sticking around at the lab to work.

Alfie is carrying paper sacks of groceries up the steps when he turns off his car, the boot of the older man’s car still open and full of bags.

Dev looks them over and picks up two and follows Alfie up into the house.

“Bloody sorry I’m early,” Dev says. “I was going to kill time in the den, so I’ll be out of your way. I’ll help, first, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t apologize,” Alfie says, peering into the sacks Dev carried and moving one of them down the counter. “I certainly appreciate the help.”

So Dev helps tote the rest of the sacks inside and then stands in the kitchen drinking a glass of water while Alfie sorts and puts things away.

There’s the sound of paper and foil being torn and then Alfie says quietly, “bother,” in a way that is almost like cursing.

“This chocolate has bloomed,” he says, sounding irritated. “It’s this heat.”

“What?” Dev replies, “like flowers?”

Alfie tips the bar of dark chocolate toward him as Dev comes around the counter. There’s a chalky white film on the chocolate.

“No, not like flowers,” Alfie says with a slight smile.

“It’s separated cocoa fat, from being overwarm,” he says, breaking off a piece and putting it in his mouth thoughtfully. He makes a face. “It’s not worth saving. Some don’t mind it but I rather do.”

Dev takes the bar and snaps off a corner and chews it. It is dry and crumbly in his mouth, and bitter, too, from the high cocoa content.

When Alfie sees Dev’s expression, he picks up the bar and drops the whole thing in the rubbish bin and resumes putting away the groceries.

“Anything else I can help with?” Dev asks, reluctant to leave for the den now that he’s already found the older man.

“I’ve a system,” Alfie says. “I’ll work faster alone. Have a seat. I’ll finish up with this and put on the kettle and we’ll have tea a bit early.”

Dev sits at the table and looks over an article on his mobile from the _Journal of Pediatric Neurosciences_ about autism and brain mapping. He sits with his chin and cheek cupped in one hand, his elbow propped on the table, and his eyes scanning the screen like he’s reading it thoroughly but in reality, he’s skimmed the past half dozen paragraphs and is barely following it. It’s a good article and he wants to give it his attention, so after rereading a passage twice without processing it, he gives up and turns the mobile screen off.

“Everything quite alright?” Alfie asks, his face buried in a cupboard as he sorts cans.

“No,” Dev says, putting his face in his hands. He realizes now that this is why he really came early; he’s been so desperate to just bloody talk to Alfie.

There’s the rustle of paper sack as Alfie takes more groceries out onto the counter.

“Are you certain I can’t help?” Dev asks, pulling his hands away from his face.

“Very well,” Alfie relents, looking him over. “Come peel these carrots.”

So a minute later, Dev is standing at the counter scraping rough skin off long carrots while the older man refills spice containers from bulk store plastic tubs, tapping the glass containers gently against the granite to settle their contents.

And Dev is alright. Maybe it’s just bloody well enough to stand and work and not speak. He’s quiet. But Alfie isn’t.

“What’s troubling you?” Alfie asks and Dev sighs.

“I’ve been here five years, yeah?” Dev says, “And they’re a blur. All I’ve done is work. I don’t feel for the lost time, because it isn’t lost and I’ve bloody enjoyed my work and I’ve done good with it. I still don’t think I’ve ever felt properly old.”

“And you aren’t, yet,” Alfie interjects. “Please don’t butcher those carrots.”

Dev looks at the carrot he’s mangling by over-peeling, and sets it down, picks up another.

“Sorry. But then I’ve started coming ‘round here and instead of just my work, what to do next, I find myself thinking about things I haven’t thought of in years, sodding years,” Dev stops moving and stares at the cutting board, and then he gathers the carrot peelings and carries them to the rubbish bin.

“Compost,” Alfie says calmly right before he drops the lot, and Dev freezes with the peels in his hands. He looks at Alfie and the older man nods his head toward a plastic bin in the corner.

Dev changes course and then washes his hands and the stainless steel vegetable peeler.

“I assume, from your attitude, that they are not entirely pleasant memories?” Alfie asks.

“No,” Dev says simply. “Not most of them.”

“You could stop coming by,” Alfie says casually, while stacking spices in a cupboard.

“Bloody hell, no!” Dev exclaims fiercely, throwing the peeler into the sink where it clatters around against the porcelain. He turns, scowling, to see Alfie looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a rather sad frown.

“You were joking,” Dev realizes a second too late.

“Yes, I was,” Alfie says mildly. “But I may have misjudged my mark.”

Dev rinses off the peeler and dries his hands on a white towel with blue edging while Alfie sets the kettle on the stove.

“Shite, I’m sorry,” Dev mutters, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

“Not to worry,” Alfie says, measuring loose tea into a metal mesh orb.

“It’s these fucking kids, Alfie,” Dev says, scuffing the floor with his shoe. “They’re bloody phenomenal, what they’ve dealt with. And I thought I’d quite moved on, put it all behind me.”

Alfie puts the lid back on the canister of tea and turns to lean against the opposite counter, mirroring his pose, arms crossed a bit tighter and higher on his chest. He crosses an ankle, one over the other.

“You’ve been lonely for quite some time, Kiran. Getting along well in your work doesn’t mean you’ve done well for yourself in other ways. You could go back to it alone, minimize the risks of dredging things up. You would still be, by most accounts, a rather successful man. But I’ve a feeling that isn’t what you want.”

“Timothy would never allow it,” Dev says, with a rueful grin. The grin fades quickly though and he’s still scuffing the tile with the toe of his faded black shoe.

“I rather doubt he would,” Alfie says, smiling fondly. The kettle whistles and he turns to pick it up.

“I’m not going to stop coming ‘round,” Dev says. “The lot of you are worth reburying the occasional nasty memory of my da.”

“That’s not quite what I meant,” Alfie says in a slightly warning tone.

When he’s poured the water over the tea leaves and set the teapot to steep, he looks at Dev with a knit brow and concerned frown.

“Oi, what?” Dev asks, shifting uncomfortably.

“I don’t mean to overstep my bounds, but precisely what sort of abuse are you recalling?”

“Abuse?” Dev says, startled. “None! My da was sodding strict, that’s all. And I was too soft for it or not soldierly enough or whatnot. I suppose he could forgive it in my sisters, but bloody not at all in his son. He was forever trying to toughen me up. That’s all.”

What Alfie thinks of this, Dev doesn’t know, because the older man has his back to him as he sets tea things onto a tray and he doesn’t say anything for several minutes.

“Well, then,” he says, when he does turn with the tray in his hands. “Come have a cup of tea. We’ll sit at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to venture out.”

Once he’s poured cups of tea and they’re both sitting at the table, Alfie takes a short breath in and out of his nostrils and then says,

“You do know you can discuss things with me, Kiran? If something is bothering you, no matter how petty it might seem?”

“Why the bloody hell do you think I came early today?” Dev asks honestly.

This seems to satisfy the older man, who leans back in his seat and sips his tea.

“What ever became of that paper you were writing?” Alfie asks after a short silence. “The one about water-soluble plating?”

“I’m still at it,” Dev says, eating a sugar cube from the bowl on the tray. “You’d be bloody surprised how hard it is find volunteers, even with FDA approval pending.”

Alfie chuckles and says, “I’m rather not surprised, quite honestly. It’s quite a gamble when one’s brain is involved.”

“Alfie!” Dev says, with mock hurt. “You say that like you don’t know who I bloody am. What miracles my hands are capable of performing.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt you, Kiran. I doubt the bravery of others,” Alfie says consolingly.

“Oi, that reminds me,” Dev exclaims. “I remembered what I meant to ask you last week. Did you ever do _The Importance of Being Earnest_ when you acted?”

“Wilde wasn’t quite in vogue in my day,” Alfie says. “But there was a small performance.”

“Were you Cecily or Gwendolyn?” Dev asks, smirking as he sips his tea.

“I was Miss Prism,” Alfie says, ignoring Dev’s hanging jaw with skillful studiousness, “because there was a fistfight over the role of Jack and I lost a bet.”

“I cannot make out if you’re bloody joking or not,” Dev says after a minute’s pause.

“That’s because I’ve a background in the theatre,” Alfie answers with a brief, warm smile, “and you were being impertinent.”


	11. Brown, Stephanie. 08/11, #05; Devabhaktuni, Kiran. 08/03, #00 REP:08/03 LOC:C

Dev is on his way home from the hospital for the night, just after midnight, when he gets a text not from Wayne or Alfred but from Stephanie Brown.

_devvy i need u. not dying just hurt knee. cave?_

She is a well sweet girl for all her tough exterior and he’s been after her for a bit to stop handling injuries alone, so he doesn’t even wait for a light. He pulls the car over and idles along the curb in a no-park zone.

_Cave or wherever is good for you. Bleeding? Fractured?_

He waits in the car, checking the rearview mirror occasionally for cops. The cops in this town are shite and the last time he got pulled over for expired tax tags, the officer asked him right off where Dev’s turban was while Dev sat and seethed. They’d let him go after a few minutes of talking and looking over his papers while he very intentionally refrained from swearing even once.

_no blood no break. Cave. can u bring lighter?_

Dev rummages in his glove box and finds one Jason had dropped in the car.

_I will not be party to arson._

_ooh arson party! u would do it for tim_

Dev pulls back onto the road and heads toward the Manor. It is a deeply dark and moonless night, even with a clear sky. The city is hardly asleep at only midnight and the pitch black overhead is murky in the pollution from streetlights and stop lights and skyscraper windows. It’s not until he’s on the suburban roads leading into the nestled hills of city estates that he can make out any stars.

The house is dark and quiet when he pulls into the drive. He lets himself in through the front door and goes straight for the elevator hidden in the parlor, without turning on any lights or hunting about for anyone. At this hour, they’re likely still on patrol.

When he gets to the Cave, Stephanie is sitting on the gurney with her leg propped up in front of her. She’s not suited up, but is wearing just a t-shirt and shorts. But that is not what catches his attention.

She is wearing a shiny purple paper party hat, a bloody party hat, and holding a cupcake with a single candle.

“Happy birthday, Batdoctor!” she calls across the Cave. “Did you bring the lighter?”

Dev spins, looking around the Cave in alarm. But it’s empty except for the two of them.

“Don’t panic,” she says. “I wanted to organize a whole party but Alfred said you wouldn’t like it very much. You ‘wouldn’t be keen’ is what he said. And I’m sorry I don’t even have my own lighter. The cupcake was planned, the knee injury was not.”

“Oi, it’s real then?” Dev asks, hurrying forward, relieved to have purpose.

“Uh, no,” Steph says, edging her leg away from him when he approaches, and holding the cupcake closer to his face. “Light this sucker and blow it out, then you can look at my knee.”

“Steph,” Dev says, in what he hopes is a kindly warning tone.

“Devvy,” she replies evenly. “Birthdays are _important_. And I have conspired with Alfred to conceal yours from the rest of the family, even Tim, though it breaks my damn heart and I am not responsible for any sleuthing he does on his own. This is all you get and you are going to enjoy it.”

Grumbling and cursing under his breath, he pulls Jason’s lighter out of his pocket and lights the candle.

“Does that lighter have the Bat symbol on it?” she asks while the candle flickers in front of her face.

Dev looks down at it in his hand. It does.

“It’s Jason’s,” he says.

“Mhmm,” Steph answers, her eyes bright with amusement. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Bloody hell, Steph, it’s Jason’s!”

Dev knows it’s useless.

He sighs and she puts a hand in front of his mouth.

“I have not yet sung to you.”

“Bloody hell, Steph,” he says again, putting his palm over his eyes. “For the record, I am supremely uncomfortable.”

“I’m actually not going to sing,” she admits. “Not by myself. Happy birthday, make a wish.”

Dev moves his hand, rolls his eyes at her, and blows out the candle. He takes the cupcake and she immediately orders, “Eat it.”

He peels the paper off the cupcake and looks down at the white icing dotted with tiny rainbow colored sprinkles.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“You’re welcome,” she says cheerfully. “Now hurry up and fix my knee.”

He eats the cupcake and tosses the paper wrapper in the trash.

“What did you wish?” she asks, when he pulls on gloves and turns to her.

“Sod off. Isn’t that against the rules?” he counters.

“It’s a shitty rule,” she says, wincing as he examines her knee. “Like most arbitrary rules.”

“I didn’t wish for anything,” Dev says, motioning for her to try to bend her leg a bit. She does but she doesn’t look happy about it.

“Well, that’s pretty fucking tragic,” she says. “You have to wish for _something_.”

“I _wish_ you’d bloody well stop whinging at me,” he says. “Why is it so sodding important to you anyway?”

“Dev,” Steph says, and her voice is suddenly hard and steady. “I have had to fight for every single one of my birthdays to matter. And I haven’t missed one. Why do _you_ hate them so much?”

He looks away from her knee and up at her face. It is hard to remain professionally detached when she has made him a cupcake and is glaring at him with a metallic purple party hat still on her head. It strikes him just how hard she is trying and he sighs again.

“Mine were forced upon me,” he says, standing to prep x-ray films. “Appearances were bloody important to my da, and every birthday they’d fill the house with food and invite my schoolmates, even the lads who hated us, and my da would show off his guns and joke around with everyone. Then they’d go home and for weeks, every sodding chance he got he’d remind me how much he’d spent on the lot of it. I suppose it ought to’ve been pleasant but he managed to make it bloody miserable and it’s turned me off the whole idea.

“And bloody hell, I sound well pretentious.”

He stops talking and turns the machine on to warm up.

“I don’t think it’s broken, your knee,” he says. “But I want to be certain.”

“Dev,” Steph says, when he walks over to her with the lead-lined apron. She takes the hat off and puts it on his head when he’s leaning over. “They weren’t celebrating you.”

He leaves the hat on.

“What did you do last year?” She asks, while he pushes the gurney over to the machine. “Anything? Like, is it same-old, same-old, or did you anti-celebrate?”

“I went off on the piss,” he says. “Black out drunk. Big bloody four-oh. Hold still.”

They don’t talk while he adjusts the angle of her leg and takes a few x-rays, moving her or the lens slightly each time.

“What do you want to do this year?” she asks when he shuts off the machine. “If you could do anything. But something good.”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Devvy,” she says, with teasing affection. “You’re wearing a party hat. You have to do something good for yourself. At least try to reclaim it.”

“I bloody have,” he says. “I’ve bought myself a new lab coat.”

“Replacing items ruined by Bruce’s blood do not count.”

“It was my _favorite_ lab coat,” Dev says, looking over the x-rays. “And you’ve a bad sprain. That’s all.”

“Do you want to go sulk alone?” she asks. “With another cupcake? There are more in the fridge upstairs.”

Dev stops moving. He looks at her.

He remembers the best birthday he ever had, the first after that horrible spring where his da wouldn’t touch or look at him at all, and hardly spoke to him, and when his birthday came around his mum made her usual plans and he woke up that morning and just left without a word.

He had ridden the Tube out of London to the furthest station he could get to and then he’d gotten out and walked until it was dark, a slight ache in his head when storm clouds rolled in. He had spent the night in an abandoned shed and trekked back home the next day. And his mum was angry but didn’t say a word to him, and his da was still not looking at him so there was nothing to be had from him.

“I want to go spend the whole rest of the bloody morning and the day in a hammock,” Dev says, suddenly certain. “I want to bugger off and not have to deal with shite until I bloody well feel like it.”

“Do it,” Steph says fiercely.

“I need a place to go,” he admits. “The last time I tried to hammock at Vernon, a right terrifying park ranger chased me off for not having a camping permit.”

Steph blinks, a little surprised.

“Here,” she says. “I mean, have you been outside here? It’s freaking huge. And there are plenty of trees. I’ll just tell Alfred to make everyone leave you alone.”

“That,” he says, meeting her eyes, “is quite possibly the best birthday present I’ve ever been given.”

Steph grins at him.

“You mean, _aside_ from the party hat. Which I expect you to wear. All day. And the cupcake that I slaved over.”

Dev opens a cupboard to get an ace bandage and an instant ice pack.

“Shall I help you hobble upstairs?” he asks after wrapping her knee. “Or do you want crutches?”

Steph looks up at him from the gurney.

“I’ve been super chill about this,” she says, “but my knee is actually pretty much killing me. I will even take medication.”

“Shite, Steph,” he exclaims, grabbing a bottle of painkillers from the cupboard. “You ought to have said something! I’m not a bloody mind reader.”

“We were deep in the midst of birthday counseling,” she says. “Because I have serious reservations about the mental health of basically everyone here. Or something like that. It sounded better when you said it.”

Steph takes the medicine and Dev turns his back to her and stoops down.

“What are you doing.”

“Hop on, Stephy, dear,” he says. “Be bloody tall for a bit.”

He doesn’t have to say it twice.

On the elevator, she says,

“I only brought the hat because I wasn’t certain I could convince my very intelligent and apparently single asexual history professor to come. But I’m pretty determined to find a good angle there, so, head’s up.”

“I’m not certain how I feel about you arranging dates for me.”

“I have to find you a girlfriend so we can have Tim back,” she says, laughing. “We need a distraction.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he says. “Leave my mate out of your nefarious justifications for meddling.”

But he’s not entirely unpleased. 

Dev gives her a piggyback ride all the way to Cass’s room, where Steph hops to the bed and flops over.

“Texting Alfred now,” she says when he’s at the door. “Tim’s hammock is in his closet. It might still have the tags on it. Happy birthday, Devvy.”

“Bloody hell, Steph,” he says from just outside the door. “I’ve my own hammock in the car. I’m not a sodding heathen.”


	12. Pennyworth, Alfred 01/01 #02 REP:08/15 LOC:WM

It is sweltering August when he gets the first text that really worries him. All the other emergencies have been blood and stitches and x-rays and, once, a series of rabies shots.

But he's eating lunch when his mobile buzzes and the message is from Wayne,

_Come help. A will infect us all._

Dev leaves lunch unfinished and throws a $20 on the table, which will more than cover the food and tip, and he's not even certain it's a tipping kind of place.

He's halfway up the stairs to the Manor when Wayne comes out to meet him on the step.

Dev is already pulling a mask out of his pocket.

“Pathogen?” he asks.

Wayne raises an eyebrow at him, a little amused as if Dev is being dramatic.

“Alfred has the flu and he won't take the afternoon off. Tim seems to think he'll listen to you.”

The air has gone out of Dev and he bends over, his hands on his knees.

“Sodding hell,” he gasps, “you are bloody awful at communication.”

“So I've been told,” Wayne says mildly. “I would have indicated an emergency more clearly.”

“Do you know,” Dev half-shouts, following him into the house, “I sped all the way here, even ‘round those pissing turns? I’m not half the driver you are. I might've died because you didn't bother with details.”

“You could have asked,” Wayne replies, not turning. They're walking down the hall past the kitchen toward the newer study.

“Fair,” Dev admits. “Cor, but I'm still bloody miffed at you.”

“Fair,” Wayne concedes, stopping at the door and listening. A hacking cough comes from inside and he glances at Dev, his nonchalance lilting into something like worry.

“How long?” Dev whispers, pressing his ear to the door.

“Three days,” Wayne says. “But it wasn't bad until this morning.”

“Bugger this family and your stubborn streaks,” Dev hisses at him. “He's well bunged up. He should have been in bed yesterday from the sound of him.”

“He wouldn't listen to me. I threatened,” Wayne shrugs a little helplessly. “At this point, our leverage is off.”

“Did you bloody _ask_?” Dev demands, putting a thin mask on and opening the door.

Alfie is sitting in the desk chair, coughing into a handkerchief with a dusting rag in his other hand. His skin is flushed and his eyes are bright with fever.

“Kiran,” he says wearily before Dev even reaches him. “You aren't going to shout me down from my work.”

Dev feels the older man’s forehead after pulling a glove on. Then he crouches in front of him at the chair.

“Alfie, I love you more than my own da. What can I do to convince you to have a lie down and let me listen to your lungs?”

“I will not be swayed by your false kindness,” Alfie replies, closing his eyes for a second and then standing to finish polishing the desk. “Birthday cakes do not bake themselves.”

Dev stands and looks over his shoulder at Wayne, who is frowning.

“Is this a house joke I'm not ken to?” he asks.

“Ken to?” Wayne echoes, giving him a look.

“It is my prerogative to use horridly antiquated English if it pleases me,” Dev says impatiently. “The cake?”

“It's Jason’s birthday tomorrow,” Wayne says, crossing his arms with a frown. “And Alfred invited everyone a week ago. I thought he invited you.”

“I've a surgery tomorrow, booked weeks ago.”

Dev shrugs at Wayne while the older man coughs.

“He's your butler,” Dev says casually, as if Alfie isn't there. “Just sack him for a day.”

Alfie pauses in his cleaning but Wayne doesn't reply to Dev. He uncrosses his arms and steps forward and puts a hand on Alfie’s.

“Alfred,” he says. “You need rest. What can I do to make it happen? I promise we won't cancel on Jay. Just tell me what to do.”

The older man sighs and his shoulders droop a bit.

“Very well,” he says. “Between the two of you, I have no hope of a fair fight.”

“Sodding right,” Dev says, taking Alfie by the elbow. He's not going to let the opportunity pass into second thoughts. “I have too few qualms about fighting dirty than is right proper.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfie calls as he is steered upstairs, “I will make a list.”

Wayne follows them all the way to Alfie’s room. It is smaller than the other bedrooms, but cozily furnished and simple.

When Alfred sits on the bed and coughs again, Dev exchanges a glance with Wayne that says more than a dozen words could.

“I'll bring up the kit,” Wayne says, turning and striding down the hall.

Dev finds extra blankets in a closet and unfolds them. He finds extra pillows behind the blankets and props them up at the head of the bed.

“I can care for myself,” Alfie protests, leaning back against the pillows with a relieved sigh.

“I wish you would,” Dev says a little harshly. “It might be pneumonia already.”

“It worsened this morning,” Alfie persists, “I was perfectly fine before.”

“Mhmm,” Dev says skeptically, sitting down with a pen and paper he's pilfered from a desk. “Now. Let's make that list for Wayne.”

Dev is used to taking notes. He takes notes longhand during consultations and in the lab, out of habit and because he found it put patients more at ease than if he was typing on a tablet or laptop.

He was required to take an entire class on handwriting to develop the precisely chaotic signature he tosses off on prescription pads, but his note taking is in a neat, slanted type he forced himself to learn after suffering through a few harrowing weeks of his own illegible notes during his first residency.

Still, with all his practice, his hand is cramped by the time Alfie finishes his itemized and oft-clarified list. Wayne has been standing behind them with a medkit over his shoulder for several minutes and there are three pages of lined paper full of instructions.

“Should I bother with day headings or sort it ourselves?”

Alfie, even ill, gives him a severe look.

“This is all for one day, then?” Dev asks, forcing himself to sound confident and at ease. He can feel Wayne reading over his shoulder. “Well, now let’s have a listen to your lungs.”

When he stands to set the papers down and hunt about in the kit for a stethoscope, he finds that it is his own bag and his own stethoscope.

“Your car was unlocked,” Wayne says, handing the bag to him. “And I'll wait in the hall.”

Alfie seems relieved to be afforded this small measure of privacy and Dev listens to his heart and lungs, mildly surprised when he expects the older man’s chest to have a frailty associated with his age that it does not actually have.

It is not the corded or thick muscle of the rest of the family, but it is lean and hard and the skin beneath the starched white shirt is peppered with scars.

Dev doesn't mention them.

He has scars he does not want mentioned or addressed.

Quietly, he listens to the steady rhythm of heartbeat.

“Breathe,” he instructs, the stethoscope on the man’s back. “Again. Deeper, if you might.”

“I told you it wasn't serious,” Alfie says irritably when Dev leans back, visibly relieved.

“Let's keep it that way,” Dev says. “Get a bit of rest. Even if your lungs are clear, you've a fever and that cough is in your bronchial tubes. If it's not on its way out by tomorrow, I'll come by with albuterol. For now, we’ll bring round some water. Fancy anything else?”

“Nothing,” Alfie says.

Dev checks his mouth and throat.

“Stomach hurt, then?”

“Mm,” Alfie nods, his jaw slack while Dev shines a light inside.

“Throat looks a bit red. Tea?”

“Not even tea,” Alfie says, as Dev moves to his ears.

“Well, that's worrying,” Dev says with a small smile. “Not even tea, indeed.”

“I hate being babied,” Alfie grumbles, “or treated like a doddering old man.”

“Oi, none of that now,” Dev exclaims. “You're being looked after like a real boy. You aren't a robot or a piece of the furniture. We're to care for household treasures, didn't you know?”

For all his attempt at professional distance, it's impossible to keep the affection out of his voice.

“You're the treasure around here, Kirry,” Alfie says with a yawn.

Dev’s breath catches in his throat and he swallows hard to clear it.

“My naanii used to call me that,” he says casually. “When we'd sit and have chai.”

“Fond memories?” Alfie asks without elaborating, sounding near sleep. Dev is packing his medical bag and the older man leans back against the propped pillows.

“The best,” Dev says honestly, thinking of the little patio on holiday mornings along the Sind River when he was sent alone to visit. “Never wanted to leave.”

“Oh, I'd nearly forgotten,” Alfie says, his eyes opening.

Dev picks up the paper and pen again.

“Master Bruce should check the brown schedule ledger-- brown, not green-- and see if it's this week or next the autumn suit of armor is to be cleaned and polished.”

“Consider it done,” Dev says, capping the pen and picking up his bag. “Have your mobile? Text if you want for anything. Want to change?”

“I'm falling in all standing,” Alfie mutters. “Leave me be.”

“That's Royal Navy talk,” Dev says, laughing. “Leave off, it makes me nervous.”

He's rather certain Alfie is asleep before he's out of the room.

Wayne is waiting in the hallway and without discussion they look over the list together. Dev was writing so quickly he only processed about half of it while taking dictation and a good bit feels entirely new to him.

“Feed the bats,” Dev reads. “Is he having us on?”

“No,” Wayne says, frowning at the paper. “That is a thing that happens. On Tuesdays now, apparently.”

Dev flips through the sheets of paper and Wayne snatches them out of his hands, turning them over.

“Are these filled _front and back_?” he asks, going a bit white.

“I don't like to waste paper,” Dev says, taking the papers back. “How in the bloody hell does he do all this in a day? In an afternoon? I’ve never seen him rushing.”

“I have no idea,” Wayne admits. “We’ll have to split up. Anything he does as routine will take us twice as long. I'll send Damian to feed the bats.”

Wayne is already taking pictures of the papers with his phone.

“How will we track what's been done?” Dev asks. “I can't stay past nine or I'll be rot in surgery tomorrow.”

Even though he's holding his phone, Wayne looks at his watch.

“That gives us eight hours together and I can work past that,” he says. He catches Dev’s eye. “That is, if you want to stay at all. You don't have to.”

“Bollocks,” Dev says. “It's Alfie. Of course I'm staying.”

“I'll have Damian bring up the whiteboard,” Wayne says. “We can spare ten minutes to strategize.”

Dev feels a slight chill at the tactical language but shrugs it off. Wayne is too focused on the papers that he somehow has in his hands again to notice. Dev isn't sure when he took them.

The whiteboard, it turns out, is extremely reminiscent of suspect boards in crime shows. Within seconds Wayne has the manor blueprints plotted out from memory and Dev is reading things off the list so they can be sorted by room.

Damian watches for a minute but tries to leave when it is clear that sticking around will keep earning him jobs, denoted by a small "D" next to tasks as they go up.

“Damian!” Wayne shouts after him when he turns and finds him walking away with his dogs. “You will get back here and help or you will skip patrol for a week. Understood?”

Damian drags himself back over and sits on a stool, scowling.

On the kitchen section, Wayne hesitates.

“Can you bake?” he asks.

“I can fix brains,” Dev offers, shrugging. “I can use a skillet. Not concurrently.”

“Hn,” Wayne says. “I can but I'm not _good_ at it. Babs can but she's helping the Teen Titans with something today.”

“Is that where Drake is?” Damian asks sharply, his first words in a while. The withering glare he gets from his father silences any further whinging, and it _was_ sounding a lot like whinging.

“You chose to leave the Titans,” Wayne says simply, returning to the board and tapping the marker against the kitchen outline.

“Steph can bake,” Dev remembers suddenly. “I do believe.”

He looks to Damian for confirmation and Damian gives a begrudging nod.

“Stephanie Brown can cook and bake,” he says. “She would be a suitable choice if she is free.”

“She's free,” Wayne decides. “For this.”

“Maybe,” Dev offers, a little peeved, “you should bloody ask her.”

“Hn,” Wayne says again. “Damian, text her. Ask if she can do it today. I'll transfer money to her account and send her a list.”

“Why do I have--”

Wayne turns to his son again.

“Alfred will be fine. He's just taking the day off to rest.”

“Tt,” Damian replies grumpily, but there's less tension in his body and the lines on his face aren't as deep. “I will text her.”

“Do you know how to vacuum a pool?” Wayne asks, frowning at the board.

“What? Me?” Dev replies. “Pools are vacuumed? With a bloody Hoover? And don't you have someone for that?”

“Alfred,” Wayne answers. “likes vacuuming the pool. So no, we do not ‘have someone for that.’”

“It is entirely outside my field,” Dev answers, scanning the board. “But I am quite ace at cleaning a loo.”

“Really?” Wayne turns to him with real surprise on his face. “Are you sure?”

“Leaving aside my mum’s fairly severe chore rotation, why do you think I'd have issues with sanitizing or bodily fluids? That was my whole first year of residency,” Dev says, shrugging.

“Stephanie Brown will come to bake a cake. She requests funds, and ‘artistic license in the kitchen,’” Damian says.

“Alfred will survive,” Wayne says, erasing and fixing something on the board. “Tell her that's fine.”

They divide the list fairly quickly after that and Dev spends the next few hours learning more about the nooks and crannies of Wayne Manor than he ever thought he'd know, all with a rag in one hand and a rotation of cleaners in the other.

When Wayne finds him in the east wing storage hall, he's polishing a suit of armor per written instructions in a brown ledger.

“What the bloody hell is autumnal armor anyroad?” he asks, when he sees Wayne walk in. “It looks exactly the same as the suit in the front hall. I've checked.”

“I think it's got padding,” Wayne says, stepping forward and tipping the mask up to peer inside while Dev rubs polish into shin-plating. “Looks like fur.”

“That is fucking excessive,” Dev mutters. “How many kilos is it?”

“Hn,” Wayne says, stepping back and crossing his arms as he looks at the armor. Dev is on a boot now. “The one I wore was probably around 50 kilos, and that's without the fur.”

“The one you wore,” Dev echoes, capping the polish. “I'm not even going to ask.”

He _very much_ wants to ask. But he's also sensitive to sounding desperate.

“They're hard to move in,” Wayne says. “Completely impractical.”

“Yet you have an _autumnal suit_ for decoration. _And_ a winter one. I've checked the ledger,” Dev stands. “And now I'm off to check on Alfie.”

“The winter one was ruined,” Wayne says. “I'll let Alfred know.”

Dev is a curious man and he is dying inside.

He bites his lip and walks away.

“I'm going out for groceries,” Wayne says, following him. “The butcher shop closes in an hour or I’d check on Alfred with you. Let me know if I need to get anything while I'm out. I'm taking Damian.”

“I don't require help to sodding check on Alfie,” Dev snaps, frustrated with himself for how hard it is to not ask.

“I didn't say--” Wayne sounds both bemused and irritated, but Dev stops in the hall without turning around and cannot help himself.

“Bloody hell what happened to the winter suit of armor.”

“That's what you were upset about?” Wayne laughs, once. “Damnit, Dev, I thought you were actually pissed for some reason. I already feel awful that you've spent the day cleaning. It was nothing. Titus and Malcolm got into the room and tore it apart to chew the lining. I made Damian clean it up but we haven't told Alfred yet, mostly because I'm worried about what it will mean for my immediate future, or the dogs.”

“I was hoping for something more dramatic,” Dev says with a sigh.

“That's the story about me _wearing_ armor,” Wayne says, “but the butcher shop closes in under an hour now.”

He strides away from Dev as they reach the stairs Dev should turn up, but he lingers at the bottom to shout after Wayne,

“You could bloody well tell it quickly if you wanted to!”

“You don't rush a good story!” Wayne yells back.  
  
Dev sighs and climbs the stairs. His medkit is still in the hall and he puts a mask on.

At the door to Alfie’s room, he knocks. There's no answer. He turns the knob slowly and goes in.

The older man is asleep, but audibly wheezing.

“Shite,” Dev says softly, pulling a pair of gloves from his pocket. He's started carrying them all the time now. He sits next to the bed and puts a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

“Alfie.”

He wakes up grumbling.

“I'm sleeping,” he says. “As I was told to do.”

“I want to have a listen to your lungs again,” Dev says. “How's your chest feel?”

“Tight,” the older man says, waking more fully now, and coughing.

Dev pulls his stethoscope from the medkit and says, “I think it's likely still bronchial,” while leaning forward to listen.

“Deep breath,” he instructs, and then listens while Alfie coughs.

“It's not pneumonia,” Alfie says peevishly.

“It's not,” Dev agrees, tucking the stethoscope away, “but we’re going to use a nebulizer before it worsens. Do you have one in the manor?”

“If we do,” Alfie coughs again, “it's in the Cave.”

“I'll run down for it,” Dev says. “And have Wayne get albuterol. Do you want anything to eat? I’ll bring up some water.”

Alfie shakes his head and closes his eyes and Dev slips his phone out of his pocket. There's a message waiting, from the hospital’s OR manager.

_Tmw PT called in w/flu. Postponing surgery. Call for reschedule._

Dev considers this and then looks at Alfie.

 _Will call; PT non-critical. Week out ok._ he sends back. He's actually very seriously considering asking Tony Fabriello to take the whole case.

On the way down to the Cave, he calls the pharmacy and then Wayne.

An hour later, he's sitting in Alfie’s room again while the machine hums and hisses. He's reading an article about new materials being used in brain shunts when Alfie asks through the mask,

“What time must you be off tonight, Kiran?”

“Surgery was rescheduled,” he says. “You're stuck with me for the whole of the sodding night. And don't even ask about the bloody list. I'm going back out into the trenches as soon as you've finished this round of meds. We’ll be working well past midnight at this rate. I honestly don't know how you do it. It's a wonder you aren't ill all the time, from bloody sheer exhaustion.”

Alfie nods and faintly smiles.

“I am not without my own special skills,” Alfie says. “Or my methods of organization.”

“I don't bloody doubt it,” Dev says, saving the article for later. “Wayne has a whole whiteboard filled out downstairs just for the day. It looks like we're preparing for invasion.”

Even with the mask, Alfie laughs.

“That is rather like him,” he says. “Thank you for staying, Kiran.”

“What?” Dev exclaims, standing and turning off the nebulizer when the hissing goes up in pitch. The medicine has run out. “And miss the opportunity to feed bats and clean autumnal armor? I told you, I love you more than my own da. And your house is fucking brilliant.”

“Language,” Alfie says, raising an eyebrow, though he rarely comments on Dev’s vocabulary. “I'm a doddering old man and you can cater to my whims. And you've said that twice today; you rather risk me thinking you're serious.”

Dev knows they're talking about his da now and not the house.

“Alfie,” he says, wiping the mask down with sanitizer and not looking the older man in the eyes, “I rather am.”


	13. Devabhaktuni, Kiran. 08/03, #00, REP:08/20 LOC:DF

Several days after Alfie is ill, Dev wakes one morning shivering. His throat is raw and he can barely swallow and it completely crept up on him in the night. He tries to shower but gives up halfway through, finds his mobile and sends a message to Anthony Fabriello asking him to cover an consult he has that afternoon, beyond caring that it will be the second thing in a week he's begged off from, and then he goes back to bed with his hair still damp.

Misery, as a word, doesn't touch how he feels. He cannot remember the last time he was ill. He has dreams all day about compromised immune systems and bacterial models.

He wakes and manages to get water at one point, remembering somewhere in the back of his mind that it's important for some reason. He looks at his mobile on the counter and considers texting Timothy, but decides against troubling anyone. He takes the water to the bedroom and only takes a sip or two before his stomach rebels and he lies in bed unmoving and willing himself to not be sick all over the blankets until he falls asleep instead.

When he opens his eyes next, it's dark outside, and he rolls over and knocks the water off the side table. He half-rises to stare at the puddle and then goes back to sleep again because his head is pounding and he doesn't want to make it worse.

At some point, he wakes drenched in sweat with a mouth that feels like cotton wool. He reaches for the glass and is surprised that it's been knocked over. He manages to get out of bed and get just enough liquid down his fiery throat that his mouth isn't parched, then he throws a towel on the puddle and puts one foot on it, gives up and goes back to bed.

His mobile buzzing wakes him. He can't tell what time it is by the light outside and for some reason the alarm clock beside the bed has been unplugged. The mobile is somewhere in another room and sighs and rolls over and decides to deal with it later. His throat and mouth are equally rough, like coarse sandpaper, but he can't be bothered. He can't tell if he's cold or hot, so he kicks the blanket until it's on his left side but not his right, both feet uncovered, and then he drags a corner over his face.

The next time he wakes, it's because the blanket is being tugged away and he makes a noise of protest at the light and tries to pull it back, his eyes squeezed shut. The blanket moves anyway and there's a cool hand on his head.

Then he remembers that he is in his flat _alone_ and he forces himself to open his eyes.

Alfie is standing next to the bed, frowning at him.

“Hullo,” Dev says, pulling the blanket back over his face. “How'd you get in.”

“I picked the lock,” Alfie answers, and through the material Dev can see the form of the other man stooping by the bed. He's mopping up something with a towel.

“It's only water,” Dev croaks. “I think. You picked the lock?”

“I am not without my skills,” Alfie answers, walking away from the bed. When he comes back, he has a glass of water in his hand. “Up then, drink this.”

“No,” Dev says, leaving his face covered. “Go the bloody hell away. I’m shattered and I ache too much to do anything.”

“Drink,” Alfie says again, flipping the covers back out of Dev’s reach. His hand fumbles for them and then he gives up and lies still. “Or I shall be forced to employ your own methods and swear at you.”

“Do your worst,” Dev mumbles, rolling over. “I've a heart of cold iron.”

“Master Timothy,” Dev hears a moment later. “Might I trouble you to bring IV equipment and a few bags of saline to Kiran’s? No, just the flu, I believe. Do not speed.”

“Don't involve Timothy in your life of crime,” Dev mutters from under the arm he's draped across his face. “He's too young for prison.”

“Crime?” Alfie asks mildly. “Oh, you refer to the breaking and entering. But I did not _break_  the lock, I picked it. And I did not _enter_ , I hurried. Master Timothy grew concerned when you missed Saturday gaming and failed to return his calls. And it is fortunate that he inquired if I would check on you because you, Kiran, are in a _state_.”

Alfie says this as if a “state” is akin to war or drowning in the Thames on holiday.

Dev becomes aware that the bed is being stripped around him.

“Where are the spare linens? I assume, from the admirable condition of the rest of your flat, that you do _have_  spare linens,” Alfie says, with a note of respect.

Dev is meticulous and, bedroom currently notwithstanding, his apartment is immaculately clean. He has been exceedingly neat for years, his care for his surroundings developed slowly over childhood.

Dev remembers sitting on the counter next to the sink in the bath, scrubbing at his new football cleats with an old toothbrush. They had been covered in mud. Next to him, leaning his elbows on the counter and holding his own cleats under the running water in the sink, was his best mate the year he was eight.

They'd been out playing and Shaun’s football had been punted into the boggy field. They'd tramped across the weeds, sinking knee-deep in soft spring muck, to get it.

Then Dev had remembered he was wearing his new cleats and they'd raced home in a panic. The poo jokes he'd have to endure if he came to practice with brown laces was sufficient motivation.

Downstairs, the door had slammed and they'd both jumped. Dev could already hear his father shouting about a field exercise that had apparently gone quite wrong.

“I ought to go,” Shaun had said, turning off the water.

“You can stay,” Dev had answered, adding and hoping it would be true: “My mum will calm him.”

Shaun had turned the water back on, a little reluctantly.

“Sunita! What happened in the back hall?” they'd heard.

“Doesn't it look nice? I spent the day cleaning.”

“The tile’s an inch deep in filth!”

“That can't be--”

“KIRAN,” his father had boomed from down the stairs.

Dev had sat frozen, not breathing, staring at his socks black with mud and remembering that they'd torn into the house laughing, down the hall, and up the stairs to the bath before taking their cleats off.

Shaun had already been scrambling to lace his cleats, tugging them onto his dirty socks even though they squelched with water.

“I'll see you ‘round school, Kiran,” he'd said just as the bath door had been flung open.

“You,” Kiran’s father had said, pointing at Shaun. “Go home.”

“Yes, sir,” Shaun had said, fleeing the bathroom and giving Kiran a little wave. Dev had known even then he wasn't being properly abandoned by Shaun; it was just the fear of a boy wanting to avoid a stern scolding or a ring to his parents. He'd felt abandoned all the same.

“I'm sorry, Da,” Dev had said, clutching his cleats, “We'd just gone after Shaun’s football in the field and--”

“Are those the cleats your grandmum just bought you,” his father had said, not asking. His face had been lit scarlet with rage as he had looked Dev over.

“Yes?” Dev had answered, holding the toothbrush up to show him. “I'll clean it all.”

Then his father had picked him up by his arm, Dev’s whole weight swinging from the one limb, and had thrown him across the room into the shower. He'd turned the water on while Dev had scrambled to his feet with all his muddy clothes still on.

“It's hot, Da,” he'd said, reaching for the knob. His hand had been slapped away.

“Leave it,” his father had said. “Don't touch it. Take off those sodding muddy clothes. I'll be right back.”

He'd stomped away while Dev had peeled his Arsenal Brady shirt and shorts off and let them fall, dripping and running streams of dark mud, from his shaking hands. He'd edged away from the water while tugging at his socks and slipped and fell back into it, just as his father returned.

The man had thrown a rag and a bottle of cleaner right into the shower with Dev.

“On your feet!” he'd roared. Dev had clambered up. “Scrub off. Then get out and clean everything. The bathroom, the stairs, the hall.”

“The water is hot,” Dev had said again, squirming.

“Then you ought to hurry. Use soap.”

Dev had waited half a second to see if his father would leave, but the man had barked, “Get on with it!” and stood unmoving in the doorway.

Five minutes later, he'd stood with his hair dripping on his shoulders and asked,

“Mum, how do I clean the carpets--”

“No,” his father had said, to both of them. “He's clever. Let him sort it out.”

He'd cleaned for four hours. Every time he’d thought he was done, his father would leave his paper or supper or programme and find another spot he'd missed. By the time he was sent to bed, he was too exhausted to cry.

The next day at school, his arms had ached and his skin was still red on his shoulders from the water. Shaun had whispered during maths, “Were you in a lot of trouble? My mum took my cleats for a week. Said I can go to practice in _trainers_.”

“I had to shower and clean up,” Dev had said, bending his head over a decimal problem.

“Cor,” Shaun had breathed. “That's not so bad, and your da had been right mad, too. I could have stayed to help.”

“Bollocks,” Dev had said sharply, startling Shaun. The word felt nice in his mouth. Shaun’s surprise had pleased him. “My lead broke. Ask Clare to let me hire her sharpener.”

Dev had avoided him for a few days after that and then they'd never spoke about it again, except when Dev listened to Shaun whinge about the humiliation of wearing his trainers for football drills.

He kept his own cleats spotless the whole season, even scrubbing them off during games.

“You fell asleep and I found the linens,” Alfie says when Dev opens his eyes again to see Timothy assembling a pole next to the bed. There are clean sheets underneath him and a clean blanket tucked around his sides.

Dev groans.

“Timothy,” he says. “Take Alfie and sod off. I'm fine.”

“Don't be stupid, Dev,” Timothy replies, irritably. “You're as bad as Bruce.”

“Am I dying,” Dev asks after a moment. “Is this what dying is like.”

“‘Sod off,’” Timothy says, in a quite good imitation of Dev’s accent. “It's just the flu but you're so dehydrated I don't know if I can even get an IV in you.”

“Let me,” Alfie says, taking the sterile sealed bag from Timothy. He sits on the edge of the bed and Timothy leaves the room.

“He's well miffed at me,” Dev moans as Alfie takes his arm and pokes at it with his fingers.

“Master Timothy is concerned,” Alfie replies. “He does not do well with anxiety, especially where friends are concerned.”

“Bollocks, I am dying,” Dev moans. “You said it was just the flu.”

“It is,” Alfie gives him a severe frown and keeps a finger on a vein he's found. “Hold still.”

Once the IV is in and dripping, Alfie sits back down and says gently,

“In Master Timothy’s experience, death tends to strike without much warning. And he has buried too many for his short life. The year we believed Bruce dead, he was in the strictest denial. He was right, of course, but for many months it was just as plausible that he had been crushed by the grief.”

“I don't want to be bloody insensitive,” Dev says slowly, his arm chilled with saline. “But I rather need to ask you to clear up a bit you just said. ‘The year we believed Bruce dead,’ _that_  bit.”

“He was lost in the time-stream,” Timothy says, re-entering the room with a steaming mug. “He wasn't _actually_  dead. But nobody believed me.”

Alfie looks a bit chagrined and does not protest this.

“I think I might be experiencing hallucinogenic dreams,” Dev says slowly. “Because I'm quite certain you just said ‘lost in the time-stream.’”

“Maybe we should talk about this when you're feeling better,” Timothy says, setting the mug on the side table. “I warmed up miso soup. Maybe after some fluids you can try eating.”

“Is that store bought?” Alfie asks, bundling blankets at the food of the bed.

“No!” Timothy exclaims, sounding a bit offended. “It's from Yamato.”

“Very good,” Alfie says. “I have tasks half-finished to tend to at the Manor. Shall I return immediately or later this evening?”

Dev understands, even with his eyes closed again, that Alfie is not speaking to him but to Timothy.

“I'll stay today,” Timothy says. “I'm sure he has some game files I can wreck.”

“Oi, what?” Dev’s eyes snap open and he sits up halfway, tugging a bit on the IV line when it catches under his elbow. He winces and pulls it out of the way, annoyed with himself.

“Next time you are deathly ill,” Timothy says calmly, “ _Call_  me. I'll leave your files alone for now.”

Alfie takes the armful of sheets and blankets with him when he leaves the room, saying,

“Do feel better, Kiran. I'll come by tomorrow with tea.”

Once he's gone, the front door closing and latching behind him, Timothy throws himself on his stomach across the end of the bed and mumbles,

“I'm not really mad at you.”

“I know,” Dev says, prodding him with his foot. “I'm sorry I frightened you. And I'm sorry about Wayne. That must’ve been a bloody hard year.”

“Fucking awful,” Timothy says. “Buried Year was worse than Tumor Year.”

The idea of Timothy labeling the calendar of his youth by most significant tragedy breaks Dev inside more than being ill does.

“Timothy,” he says after a moment, shuddering with a fever chill right after. “You're well loved.”

“I know,” Timothy says, his face against the sheets. “I know most people don't see it, but he's a really good dad. And you're a good friend. I apparently am not hindered by age gaps.”

“I rather often forget how young you are,” Dev says, pulling himself to sit up against the headboard. He adjusts the saline flow and picks up the miso soup. His stomach is still tight, shot through with stiff jabs of pain, but he knows he should at least try. “You're just a lad but you're my best mate. Thanks for sending Alfie today.”

“How's the soup?” Timothy asks in a choked voice, his face turned away. “Is it hot enough?”

“It's bloody perfect,” Dev says, sipping. “I'm well beat, but if you're up to it, I'd move to the couch to watch you slaughter some monsters. I've Shadow of the Colossus.”

“That would be amazing,” Timothy says. “C’mon, you can lean on my shoulder.”

“If I can reach that far down,” Dev retorts, putting down the empty mug.

“I'm reconsidering those game files,” Timothy warns, standing up and stretching his fingers. “I've always wanted to try modding Fallout 3.”

“I am an ill man, Timothy Wayne. You wouldn't.”

“Oh, don't worry. I'm probably too short to reach the buttons anyway. I'm super tiny. But you. What's it like in the tree tops? Do you have problems with birds?”

“Just a few,” Dev says, swinging his legs off the bed. When he stands, he is a full 195 centimeters, towering over Timothy. “One in particular. A red little wanker. He's a bloody awful bird; he can't even properly fly.”

Timothy grins.

“What a stupid bird,” he says.

“Nah,” Dev answers, staggering to the couch. Timothy follows him with the IV pole. “He's brilliant.”

“I'm glad you're feeling a bit better,” Timothy says as Dev sits down and stretches his legs across the rug. “And your place is amazingly clean.”

“Eh,” Dev looks around. For the first time since he woke, he thinks of his dream again, the memory sharp as he examines the spotless living room. “I may have less than ideal motivations.”

Timothy hunts along a shelf for a game case.

“At some point, the end result has to be divorced from the initial process,” he says. “Otherwise, we'd all collapse under our own beginnings.”

When he's put the game in and fetched bottled waters and crisps to set on the side table, he sits and says,

“If I was ever lost in a time-stream, I think I'd probably try to find a way to save Bruce’s parents and then go beat up your dad. But I've heard altering things can have nasty complications, so…”

Dev is still too fevered, too ill, too close to vulnerability for any discussion along these lines. He clears his throat.

“Bugger me,” he says. “But I thought you were going to slay some monsters for my entertainment.”

Timothy looks at him for a minute, his dark hair pushed back from his serious, brown eyes. Then he smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “Monster slaying next in queue. I expect some cheering and clapping after the hard ones.”

“Raucous cheering,” Dev says. “I might even stand to applaud you.”


	14. Wayne, Cassandra Cain 01/26 #06, #04 REP:08/30 LOC:TC

Dev is sitting with Wayne and Clark Kent drinking tea at the kitchen table one day when it is starting to get blustery out. He hadn’t meant to join them or interrupt, but Kent had insisted when he’d seen Dev leaving the den after a Battlefront marathon.

They’ve been talking for almost an hour when Dev sees Cass go by in the hallway, once, twice, then three times. He’s starting to get worried because she has a rather distracted look on her face. He’s about to say something to Wayne about it, he’s on the verge of opening his mouth, his brow creased as he looks toward the hall.

Then Cass falls right outside the kitchen. She goes down silently, even unconscious, and Dev is the only one who sees. The others have their backs to her. Something in the way she is limp as she collapses is innately alarming to him.

“Bloody hell,” he explodes, bursting from his seat, stumbling and catching himself already in a run. He slides into the hall, cursing his socks, and drops hard to his knees to slow himself right next to her head.

“Cass,” he’s already tapping her face, pulling a little at one eyelid to check her pupil response. “Cass, love.”

Wayne and Kent are already beside or behind him.

“When,” Dev looks up at Wayne, their heads bent close over her, “When did she hit her head?”

The other man’s eyes are wide and startled. He shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

“Shite and bollocks,” Dev exclaims, checking her eye again. She is still not rousing. “We’re taking her to hospital,” he says. “Ring Steph and find out if she knows.”

Dev doesn’t wait for the other two to argue or agree. He slides his arms under the limp form and stands.

“I can get her there fast,” Kent is saying to Wayne as Dev adjusts for the burden of nine stone of mostly muscle before he walks forward.

“She shouldn’t go that fast,” Dev retorts, walking away from them toward the foyer. “Sod it, but I’m quite certain she’s a brain bleed.”

“Then let me take her to the car,” Kent is at his elbow faster than anyone could have moved.

Dev lets him take her.

“The hatchback. Put her across the back seat, I’m running for my bag.”

When Dev sprints down the hall, away from Kent carrying Cass and Wayne on the phone with Steph, he remembers the first time he saw a scan of a brain bleed, and the last time his father laid a hand on him.

They were the same week.

They were most certainly related.

It was that final, awful spring at home and he tries hard not to think about it, ever.

Dev had come home absolutely rat-arsed drunk at five in the morning his final year of secondary. It was a dare, really, to see if his mum would cover for him the way she did the girls after their parties or late nights with boyfriends.

His father had met him just inside the door with his arms stiffly at his sides and Dev’s mum was nowhere in sight though he knew, he _knew_ she had to be awake.

“You will _not_ be sitting your A-levels this term,” his father had said when he was hardly inside the house. “You will work for a year until you develop some discipline, before you embarrass this family.”

Dev, walking past and still too drunk to remember why this was dangerous or why he should be upset, had _laughed_ at him.

It was easy in his muddled sort of giddy state (he had been, those years, a happy drunk) to ignore his father’s shouted rage, his fury at being laughed at and ignored. Dev doesn’t know what else was yelled while he stumbled into the kitchen, giggling.

He had opened the fridge and the smell of fresh curry made his stomach turn and he spun without thinking to razz his guts out in the sink.

“Stop it,” he remembers his father demanding. “Stop with the theatrics and pay attention.”

But Dev had a whole night of pints in him and not a bite of food to weigh it down.

There is a vague scrap of a memory of his father’s hand seizing the hair on the back of his scalp while his father’s voice snapped, “I said stop it, Kiran.”

But he does not remember the counter rushing toward his face, the lip of the porcelain sink slamming into his forehead.

He has hazy memories that he might have invented for himself of lying on the kitchen floor, still puking or puking again, while his mother held his head and cried at his father. Of his father, in words shaky with anger and fear, ringing 999 and saying there had been an accident. Dev had likely made up that part.

The next clear memory he has is when he came to himself, slowly, two days later in a hospital room where his mum was looking at scans with a doctor.

“I fell against my desk,” he had said, the first thing that had come to mind. His mum had rushed to hold his hand and he didn’t understand why she was upset.

“Your mum said you slipped in the kitchen,” the doctor answered, a little suspiciously.

“I don’t remember, actually,” Dev says. “I don’t know. I was pissed.”

“That I’ll believe. Your BAL was through the roof but it probably saved your life,” the doctor had answered, turning back to the scans.

Dev had looked up at the scans. He found later they were the post-surgical follow-ups from after the drilling and draining and plating, when they weren’t sure yet he’d ever wake up. He stared at them and the pictures of his brain were the most beautiful thing he had seen in weeks, maybe months.

And so the time he almost died was when he knew what he wanted to do with his life.

When Dev had been sent home from the hospital, his father wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t touch him at all, and even through three graduations and half a life of holidays and birthdays, he can’t recall that he’s ever started up again.

Dev should be glad, especially when he can reach up and feel the slight ridge of scar under the droop of hair that hangs across his forehead, but he has found instead that he is hungry even for a rough hand on his shoulder, for an “I’m so sorry, Kiran,” and has not even gone home in six years because he cannot bear the absence of it in the presence of the man who bashed his skull in.

And there is definitely something wrong with him, he thinks, as he sprints down the steps to his own car idling in the gravel drive, that he is perversely grateful that he was put in the hospital to see those scans and have the course of his life so affected. Because now Cassandra Cain might be bleeding inside her brain and he knows exactly what to do about it.

He pulls open the door and gets in the back, cradling Cass’s head on his lap as he checks her pulse and listens to her heart, working as they go. Except, they aren’t going. Wayne is in the driver’s seat and Kent in the passenger, but the car is just idling still.

“Clark,” Wayne says tensely, unmoving behind the steering wheel. “I’m going to need you to drive.”

“Yeah. Right,” Dev says, nodding, “C’mon, move then. Hurry it up.”

Kent and Wayne switch seats and while Dev tries again to wake Cass up, Wayne is making phone calls from his mobile and giving Kent directions.

“Alfred, tell Leslie we’re coming to the clinic. Yes, right now. It’s Cass. No. All we need is the equipment, she doesn’t have to be there. No, I haven’t talked to her yet. I’m aware of that. No. I’ll handle it. Just tell her we’re coming. Less than ten minutes.”

He hangs up.

Dev has not been successful.

Kent is an ace driver and they’re maintaining speed even around turns without being slammed about in the back.

“How long ago?” Dev demands, as they race under a yellow light.

“What?” Wayne sounds distracted.

“Steph,” Dev prompts. “Bloody hell, how long ago did Steph say it was?”

“She didn’t know. She said Cass has been acting unusual for two days at least.”

“Bugger me,” Dev mutters under his breath. He tries again. “Cass?”

This time, she moans and her eyes flutter open.

“Hullo,” he says. His relief is tempered by the fact that her pupils are still out of sync. It looks like whatever happened was likely on the left side. He feels gently for any bumps or depressions and finds none.

Wayne twists in the passenger seat to see them.

“Cass,” Dev says.

“Don’t worry, Stephie,” she says, looking past him. “I’m fine. But I do _so_ worry about Bruce. He’s such a little boy.”

“Cass, love,” Dev says. “That’s quite fine. Tell me everything.”

“I thought we could get steamed buns,” she says. “And talk about the old days. Don’t you remember, Tim? We were swell, weren’t we? Be a dear and pour me a scotch.”

“She’s been watching Mad Men,” Wayne says, looking up from his phone. “Three seasons in two days. She must have been in the manor the whole time, damnit.”

The car stops and Dev looks up. When he looks back down, Cass is unconscious again.

They’re in a car park and an older woman is standing at the automatic doors of a white building with a wheeled stretcher at her side, her arms crossed.

It is not until inside that the woman speaks, asking,

“What am I dealing with?”

At the exact same moment, Dev demands,

“Where is the sodding CAT scan machine?”

They look at each other and Dev moves first.

“Whatever bloody mess you’ve got, it’s your problem. Come help when you’ve sorted it.”

“No,” the woman says, putting a hand on his arm. Dev jerks away. “This is _my_ clinic. My equipment. Who the hell are you?”

“Wayne,” Dev says, feeling for Cass’ pulse, which is becoming erratic. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Who _are_ you?” the woman asks again, angrily.

“He’s our doctor,” Wayne says sharply and she freezes. “I’m sorry, Leslie,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all. “But after Stephanie, I don’t want you near Cass.”

“How dare you. I saved that girl’s life. And it’s Dr. Thompkins to you, Bruce.”

“You lied to me,” he snaps. “And we’re just here for the equipment. We can talk about this later.”

Dev is already moving, letting them argue behind him.

“I _will_ need help,” he reminds them. “Brain surgery is not a one-man show.”

“Brain surgery?” Dr. Thompkins shouts. “Absolutely not!”

“Dev is a damn artist,” Wayne is saying as Dev rounds the corner. “And he can do whatever the hell he needs to do.”

“I ought to call the police on you, after all–” the retort is lost to him as he starts checking doors along the hall looking for the warning signs about magnetic imagery or radiation in use.

“What can I do to help?” Kent asks from immediately behind him.

“Unless you’re an anesthesiologist, not bloody much.”

“What do I need to read?” Kent asks, stopping in the hall. Dev is so surprised he actually pauses to look back at him.

“What?”

“If I was in medical school, what would I read? Give me a list.”

“If I’m right about a brain bleed, we’ll start as soon as I read the scans,” Dev replies, walking with the gurney again. “Less than thirty minutes.”

Cass mumbles, “I am a gray rock.”

Kent is walking next to the gurney now, taking his glasses off and pocketing them.

“Dev, I have an eidetic memory. I can read books in seconds. I’m not bragging, just, this seems like the time to clarify. If you give me a decent list, I can be back by the time the scan is done. I won’t be great but I’ll at least be useful.”

Dev digs his keys out of his pocket and hands them over.

“9583 White Oak, apartment 4. Jaffe, Barash, Miller, and Mackey. Anything on my shelves they’ve authored.”

Kent is gone before Dev can blink.

His life has gotten quite weird the past year.

At the next door, he finds the sign he’d been looking for and goes in. He sets up the scan by himself, stands at the monitor while Cass lies motionless and the machine whirs around her.

A favorite teacher had applied for an A-levels extension for extenuating circumstances for him the few days he was in hospital, and he sat them a fortnight later with a massive headache that took weeks to fade and suture scabs across his forehead. He was still taking the steroids twice a day and barely sleeping.

He got his A-level results that summer from the same teacher, an older man who taught modern sciences in a methodical way, and Dev had asked him,

“Will you write a recommendation letter for me? I want to study neurology.”

The older man had looked up at him from the papers he was reading over and said,

“That’s likely twelve years more of school, Mr. Devabhaktuni. And it leaves little time for a home life of any kind.”

“That’s brilliant,” Dev had said. “Perfect.”

“You could go anywhere you liked, with results like this,” the teacher has said, putting the papers down. “I’ll write you the letter but you won’t need it.”

And he had been right. Before the letter was even posted, Dev had come home to two offers and then another three and he’d had his pick of schools.

He’d left home looking forward to every one of those twelve years of excuses to not return.

The computer beeps, hauling him back to the present and he swears, looking at the first scan.

“How bad?” Wayne asks from the doorway.

“Not quite as bad as I feared,” Dev says with a sigh, clicking through scans. “It’s a slow bleed. Subdermal. Minimal swelling.”

“Dr. Thompkins is scrubbing in. She’s agreed to help. You cannot leave her alone with Cass, Dev. At all.”

“Alright,” Dev says mildly. “But you should sit out. Call Alfie to come.”

“I should help,” Wayne says firmly, staring at the scan Dev left up.

“No,” Dev replies, meeting his gaze. “You’re on the bloody brink and I won’t operate if you’re in the room.”

There is a moment when Dev thinks Wayne will resist, try to shout him down. But instead, he just walks away.

Kent meets him in the hall, tying a mask around his face.

“I read them,” is all he says. “Just tell me what each piece of equipment is and I’ll be fine.”

Dev thinks there must be something wrong with him. Maybe there always has been, maybe it’s only been since his head collided with kitchen sink, because all he says is,

“Right-o,” and he wheels Cass into the small OR that is barely an OR.

It only requires a small hole and he does the rest of the work with a thin drain tube, a laser wire, and magnification equipment that Dr. Thompkins actually has in-house despite her protest about brain surgery.

“I’m sorry,” he says, near the end of the surgery, after he’s found and cauterized the leaking vessels. “I was bloody rude when we arrived.”

“A neurosurgeon who apologizes,” Dr. Thompkins replies, adjusting a light. “Will wonders never cease. And you do good work. I can see why he trusts you.”

She doesn’t, however, accept the apology. He lets it go. He doesn’t thank her for the compliment.

When he’s working on packing the small hole in the skull with dissolvable foam, she excuses herself from the room. He hums absent-mindedly as he works, mostly forgetting Kent is there until he hears him softly singing along.

“ _You can have my girl, but don’t touch my hat._ ”

There is a moment when they exchange an embarrassed glance, and Kent chuckles.

“I didn’t peg you for a Lovett fan.”

“I always thought cowboy would be a smashing good alternate career,” Dev returns, lacing a suture thread. “You, however, should consider anesthesiologist. You’ve done quite well.”

“I’m a quick learn,” Kent replies, “But I don’t have the heart for it, usually. I’m going stir-crazy over here. This is just for Cass. She’s a good kid.”

“She is,” Dev nods, bent over the tiny sutures. It won’t take many and the scarring will be minimal, faint after just a few months if he’s careful.

“Bruce really likes you,” Kent says. “I don’t know if you know him well enough to realize.”

“I had supposed,” Dev says neutrally, his heart thudding.

“And they mean a lot to you,” Kent says. “That’s why he trusts you.”

“I’m just here for the medical challenges.”

“Dev, I can hear your heartbeat. It didn’t race at all the whole surgery but it is now.”

“Bloody hell, that’s intrusive,” he exclaims, a bit annoyed and terrified. “You really are rather super. Sod off.”

Kent laughs, as Dev dabs at the finished sutures with antibiotic cream.

“We’ve bonded over Lovett. I can’t leave now. Don’t tell Bruce.”

Then he sobers when Dev nods to him and says,

“Alright, bring it down. Ten a second.”

“I was listening,” Kent says, turning a dial. “When you operated on Bruce. When you woke him up, I mean. Did you know then?”

Dev shrugs, watching the motionless girl covered in wires. He begins removing some tubing and wires so they can wake her.

“I hoped,” he says. “I thought it would look bloody impressive on my CV.”

There is eye movement beneath her closed eyelids and he holds up a hand. Kent stops.

“Cass, love,” Dev says. “Can you hear me? Time to wake up.”

She blinks.

“You are not a doctor,” she says to Kent, looking past Dev. “You are ink and paper.”

“I am,” he agrees. “But I made a small exception for you.”

“Can you tell me the day, Cass?” Dev asks her. “What you did last?”

“It’s a weekday,” she says. “Don Draper is a sick man. I went to ballet class with Liu Bao. And I’m taking a nap.”

Dev lets her fall back asleep.

“I’ll wake her again in fifteen minutes,” he tells Kent. “Go tell Wayne we’re done in here. I’m not sure Dr. Thompkins did.”

He sits with her alone until Wayne comes in. They sit together, not speaking much, through the first hour and the second, Dev waking her every fifteen minutes to get her to talk to them until he’s satisfied it’s safe to let her sleep off the rest of the sedative.

“She’ll be alright,” he tells Wayne, standing and taking his mask and gloves off.

“I believe you,” Wayne answers, staying by Cass’ side. “How did you know so quickly?”

Dev sits back down and pushes back his hair. Wayne looks at him, leans forward to see the scar there.

“I had a brain bleed once,” he says. “I was in a coma for two days. I was the same age as Cass. And I remember.”

He thinks there’s something wrong with him but he’s thought that for quite his whole life, really.

“How did it happen?” Wayne asks and Dev knew the question would come.

“I fell,” he lies. “In the kitchen when I was trolleyed. Uh, drunk. Absolutely pissed.”

“Your father was an asshole,” Wayne says darkly. “Is he still alive?”

Dev swallows and nods.

“Is an asshole,” Wayne amends.

“I know,” Dev answers. “But he’s my da.”

Dev stands and takes the bloodied drill bit from the table of tools and scrubs it off at the sink then puts it in his pocket.

He leaves Wayne with Cass before the conversation can go anywhere else.


	15. Wayne, Bruce 02/19 #01, REP:09/07 LOC:DF

Dev is out on a hike by himself, breathless at the end of a steep upward grade and cresting the hill to see the world spread out below him, when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out and holds it for a minute before looking at the screen, instead looking across the landscape of turning leaves. The golden yellow beeches are mixed with the still green maples, tongues of scarlet edging only now starting to creep their way across.

He finally looks at his phone and then startles, swipes the screen to answer. He’d been expecting a text, not an actual call.

“Hullo, Alfie!” he says, glancing over his shoulder as a squirrel chatters in protest and flees, scattering a small downpour of acorns in its wake.

“Kiran,” the older man replies calmly. “No emergency. I only just wanted to inform you we will be needing to reschedule Master Bruce’s one year follow-up appointment.”

“Bloody hell, no. He doesn’t get to wriggle his way out of this one,” Dev replies quickly. “Is everything quite alright?”

“Everything is fine,” Alfie replies, still calm. “Only, he is off-world at the moment and for an indefinite period of time.”

And even though one of Dev’s preferred research fields is exactly this-- the brain and contact with extraterrestrial situations-- something inside him lurches a bit at that.

“Off-world,” he repeats. It is a preferred field but one he hasn’t ventured in years, for exactly this reason-- it makes people uneasy. It was hard to publish, hard to keep funding, impossible to present. Even scientific minds showed strange qualms when the studies moved from theory to affect on the human brain. Plus, there was a sheer lack of test subjects with more than peripheral experience.

“Kiran, are you still there?” Alfie is asking now.

“Right, sorry. I’m here. Yeah, call me when he’s back, then, yeah?” Dev is stranded in the autumn landscape trying to imagine what _off-world_ looks like this time and how one gets there.

“Of course,” Alfie says. “Tea tomorrow?”

“You know,” Dev says, watching the sky. It had been a bright day when he’d started out, but a storm cloud is rolling in fast now, dark and churning as it eats across the blue, “I’m rather in the mood for some PG Tips.”

Alfie sighs.

“I’ll bring some,” Dev says, “I’ll even brew my own cuppa if it’s too common for you.”

“Bring a bag for me as well,” Alfie says, “if you are determined to suffer, I will join you.”

“Tomorrow then,” Dev says cheerfully.

He hikes back down the hill thinking of aliens and Star Trek the whole way.

Five days later, he is sitting in his flat playing Portal 2 and texting Timothy, who had sent him a message saying _SOS trapped in most boring class ever. 300+ students. class is about not getting drunk and showing up for tests, wish I was joking_.

He probably should not be participating in distracting the boy but it does sound sodding miserable. And he’s got the whole of the afternoon before him after a surgery the day before and research that can wait twenty-four hours at least.

Because he’s texting Timothy he almost misses the message from Wayne. The notification slides down just as he’s sending a picture of an on-screen glitch.

_back. on way to your apartment. need help. radio silence._

He stares at it for a minute and then texts Timothy, _have fun in drunk class, mate. off to work._

Dev turns off the game and jogs down to the car for his medkit. He contemplates waiting outside but it’s pouring rain, so he decides against it.

When the knock sounds at the door, he’s there in a second.

Wayne is alone and pale and sweating. He stumbles into the apartment past Dev without a word of greeting and then stands in the living room, looking around and swaying slightly.

“Bloody hell,” Dev exclaims, grabbing his arm and giving him a gentle shove toward the couch. “Lie down, mate!”

Wayne lies down and then sits up again and pulls his shirt off over his head and throws it on the floor.

Dev stares.

There’s a veiny network of azure blue lines radiating from a short, shallow cut on Wayne’s chest, on the lower left of the right pectoral muscle.

Then Dev moves, pulling on gloves from his pocket and kneeling next to the couch to look more closely at it.

“What the sodding hell,” he breathes out, prodding gently at the outermost stretches of blue. Wayne doesn’t respond in obvious pain or discomfort, so he moves closer to the wound, which is not pinked or reddening as he would expect. It’s white with a faint cerulean hue, as if already scarring but in the wrong way.

“I was off-world,” Wayne says as way of explanation, his eyes closed. Dev gets a thermometer out and runs it across the sweaty forehead.

“You’re not fevered,” he says. “What are your other symptoms?”

“Withdrawal,” Wayne replies, shivering. “Nausea, tremors, perspiration, heart palpitations, muscle tightness, shortness of breath, inability to focus, insomnia, hallucinations.”

“Shite,” Dev replies, putting his hands on his hips and thinking. “How…”

He wants to ask how it happened.

“How long?” he asks instead, getting out his stethoscope.

“Four days,” Wayne says. “But getting progressively worse. The first day we were there, I was speared. It wasn’t deep but I have no idea what it was. It went straight through the Kevlar. I had a hell of a time keeping it from Clark. It must have been tipped with something. The symptoms started showing up almost twelve hours after. It hardly bled at all.”

“We,” Dev says sternly, “are going to have a talk about you bloody hiding things. But first we’ll deal with this. Do you’ve anything that could give me a place to start? And what makes you think drug withdrawal and not poison?”

“There was a population,” Wayne answers, shifting on the couch and sitting up suddenly. He shivers again and Dev grabs a blanket. “They were users. I didn’t see the method, if it was oral or intravenous or nasal or something else entirely, but they had the same blue lines. I didn’t notice them on anyone else. And I have my reports. The JLA one and the personal one.”

He pulls his phone out and unlocks it from within the blanket he’s hugging around his shoulders. He tosses it to Dev. The first report is already pulled up.

Dev scrolls down the screen, reading quickly.

“This is bloody phenomenal,” he says. “You’ve no idea.”

“I have an idea,” Wayne retorts wryly. “I’m human, too.”

“I have my doubts,” Dev replies. He turns off the phone and hunts in the medkit again. “Right then, some blood samples.”

Wayne extends an arm.

“And we’d be better equipped to deal with this at the Cave,” Dev observes, watching Wayne’s face carefully. He still isn’t sure why the man came here, to his flat, except that it’s likely he isn’t thinking clearly.

Wayne looks right at him.

“I’ve got kids who had addict parents,” he says. “We cannot be at the Manor at all until this is dealt with.”

Dev nods and fastens the elastic band around Wayne’s arm and then fills four vials. He doesn’t even know what tests to run but he doesn’t want to overtax him right now. They can always draw more later.

For a moment, Dev just holds the vials in his hand.

“Do you think I should scan these for opiates or…how useful would that be? How likely is it that they share chemical structures?”

“Highly unlikely,” Wayne answers, lying back down. “It was…it was a weird one. And just to make sure. Your apartment is not currently on fire, is it?”

Dev glances at the silent smoke detector and then around the flat.

“No,” he says, “it’s not on fire.”

“Good,” Wayne says, closing his eyes again. “Because the screaming is starting to get to me.”

Dev has limited lab equipment in his flat. Other than the medkit, which he usually keeps in the car, and basic first aid, he really _does_ like to leave work outside of the building where he sleeps. He scribbles off some labels on the vials and then puts two in the fridge and leaves two on the counter.

“If this was classic withdrawal,” Dev says slowly, “you’d not be having such severe symptoms after a single exposure.”

“It _is_ alien,” Wayne says irritably from under the blanket. “But it might be stupid to rule out it functioning as a poison. I haven’t been thinking clearly.”

“Is there anyone you can think of,” Dev says slowly, “that you would be quite alright with involving? Clark? Timothy? Alfie? I’ve a need to run these to my lab.”

He does not say he is reluctant to leave Wayne alone.

“No,” Wayne says, grumbling. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve a sodding alien drug in you. What if I come back and you’ve gone bloody mental?” Dev challenges, more to push him to have company than for any fear for himself. He’s too distracted by the tiny joy he feels in the phrase _alien drug_ to think of his own safety at the moment.

Wayne doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Then he sits bolt upright and looks wide-eyed at the blanket, a batarang in his hand.

“Oi,” Dev yells from across the room. He sits on the table by the couch and when Wayne remains frozen, panting, he gingerly reaches across and plucks the batarang out of the man’s hand. He has to tug a little, saying, “Whatever you see, it’s still just a blanket, mate.”

Wayne lets go of the weapon.

“Hn,” Wayne says. His expression hardens a little and then he sighs as if resigning himself, looking at the batarang Dev is holding and then the blanket again. “You might have a point.”

“Where did you even have this?” Dev asks, turning the batarang over in his hand.

“In my pocket,” Wayne says. “I don’t remember why.”

“So, who do I ring?” Dev asks, taking the batarang with him and looking around the flat for somewhere to stash it. He settles on the Collector’s Edition Fallout 4 box, tucking it behind the book of concept art.

“Selina,” Wayne answers. “Her number is in my phone.”

Dev looks at the Fallout 4 box and then at Wayne. He hasn’t met Selina Kyle but he knows a little of her; mostly that she only comes around the Manor when she’s not likely to run into anyone else.

“I bloody well don’t mind being obstinate, so I’ve no qualms asking, will she be safe?”

Wayne gives him a look like he’s stupid.

Then something like realization crosses his face.

His mouth hardens into a line that is determined and amused at once.

“Yes,” he says simply. “She’ll be fine.”

He reaches over and unlocks the phone and tosses it to Dev.

“You’ll have to call her,” he says. “She doesn’t like texts.”

The line rings five times before there’s an answer.

“Bruce,” the woman’s voice says languidly. “This is a bad time.”

“She’s going to tell you it’s a bad time,” Wayne says from the couch, sneezing. “She’s lying.”

Dev has just opened his mouth when Wayne hisses at him with feral intensity, “Do _not_ yell or swear at her. She will hang up.”

“Hullo,” Dev says, scowling at Wayne. “This is actually Dr. Devabhaktuni, Wayne’s physician. We’ve a spot of bother and he’s requested you.”

“Is he okay?” she asks earnestly, languidness vanished.

Dev looks over at Wayne, who is shivering again. The man’s face is slightly green and if he’s not mistaken, the azure lines are darkening and spreading slightly. His pause is enough for her to say,

“Just tell me where to go.”

“We just might be in for a rough night,” Dev finally says, giving her the address. “Don’t feel a need to rush.”

The line goes dead.

“How is Cass?” Wayne asks when Dev sets the phone down. “I haven’t seen her since getting back.”

“Speaking of people who I harbor bloody serious doubts concerning the humanity of,” Dev says. “I examined her again yesterday and she’s perfectly fine. As if nothing had ever sodding happened.”

“That’s my girl,” Wayne says with a slight smile. “Cass will outlast us all.”

“Only because we are bloody old,” Dev says, crossing his arms and biting his lip as he studies Wayne on the couch. “And because you are well bunged up with alien infection.”

“It’s not infection,” Wayne says, pulling a couch cushion over his face. “That light is damn annoying.”

Dev gets up and turns the living room light off.

“What measures do you have in place to make sure you aren’t bringing pathogens or viruses home?” Dev asks, hoping he sounds neutral and not accusatory.

“On the Watchtower?” Wayne asks, moving the cushion a little to look at him.

“Anywhere,” Dev shrugs.

“You didn’t say bloody or sodding once while asking that.”

“Because I am legitimately curious and well concerned,” Dev says. “I don’t doubt you’ve some system in place. But if I understand things correctly, you are one of the only human men to regularly go off-world.”

Dev sounds casual as he says this, but there is a part of him still staggered by the surrealness, even now.

“A quarantine period. A full body scan. It’s not as often as it might seem and usually the suit stays intact and my personal exposure is limited. I incinerate it after.”

“Every time?”

“Every time.”

“Hmm,” Dev says, frowning, thinking of both the money surely involved in this and the exposed facial area the mask doesn’t cover.

“Dev,” Wayne says, pulling himself up on the couch. He’s still sweating. “I do not want to be the man responsible for bringing the alien equivalent of smallpox to Gotham, or the world. I’m careful.”

“Hmm,” Dev says again. “I’d still rather like to look over your procedure.”

“I feel like this is a more reasonable question,” Wayne replies, a distraction smoothing out the furrow in his brow, “but is someone singing Italian arias?”

“No,” Dev says, laughing. They can revisit the matter of alien illnesses soon, but Dev is fine with letting it drop for now. “I bloody well do not keep opera singers hidden away in my flat.”

“It’s not opera,” Wayne replies and then he sighs. “Right. Doesn’t matter.”

Dev pulls a penlight out of the medkit.

“Let me see your eyes,” he says. “And what are your worst symptoms right now?”

He studies the reaction of Wayne’s pupils while Wayne answers.

“It feels like my bones are being crushed.”

“Strangest symptoms? This is just because I _am_ bloody curious and I’m a sadist.”

“So Tim tells me. And,” Wayne makes a face, like he’s thinking. “The hallucinations are unusual, but that’s not unusual _for_ hallucinations. My urine is dark brown but I’m not dehydrated.”

This triggers some tidbit of knowledge in the back of Dev’s brain but it doesn’t emerge with clarity. He turns it over on his mind, poking at it mentally to see if it will come to anything. He keeps listening.

“The weirdest is the blue streaks.”

“It almost looks like lymphangitis,” Dev says, leaning closer to study it again.

“It’s not how it looks. It’s how it feels.”

“How does it feel?” Dev asks, squinting at one of the thicker blue lines and the skin around it.

“This is going to sound…” Wayne sighs. “I don’t know how…”

“Out with it,” Dev says. “You _are_ bloody well allowed to say ‘painful.’ I won’t tell a soul.”

When Wayne talks again, his words are rushed, linked together without breath and almost without spacing.

“Do you know that feeling when someone is touching you, a hug or leaning against your arm, and you’ve reached your sensory limit. It doesn’t hurt but it’s uncomfortable and it becomes all you can think about until you move away. It feels like _that_ , under the skin.”

“Bloody hell,” Dev says, sitting back. “That is bloody awful. Do you want to try ice? Or pressure?”

“Maybe pres-”

There’s a knock at the door and Dev jumps. Wayne does not.

When Dev opens the door, the slim woman with short dark hair looks up at him and hms appreciatively.

“So you’re the doctor,” she says.

“Miss Kyle,” he answers, guessing.

“Bruce,” she calls out, stepping past him without technically confirming her identity. She looks Dev up and down again and then says across the room, “I’ve changed my mind about Alain Delon.”

“Shut up,” Wayne says miserably. “And leave Dev alone. He isn’t interested.”

“Hm,” she says again, sounding disappointed this time.

Dev follows her into the living room and watches as she crouches next to the couch. Wayne is lying down again and Dev thinks the shivering seems worse.

“What the hell is this?” she asks, with dark and quiet fury, motioning to the blue across his chest.

“Off-world,” Dev says. “We’re rather certain it’s some type of drug, so, withdrawal. I need you to stay with him while I run lab tests. He bloody won’t tell you this, but he might quite appreciate some pressure on those blue marks.”

“Shit, Bruce,” she exclaims, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up so she can sit on the couch with his head in her lap. She starts pressing her hands against the azure streaks and Wayne sighs. “You’re such an overachiever.”

“Gotta be the best,” he mumbles. “Otherwise, what’s the point.”

Dev takes the blood samples from the kitchen and leaves the flat.

By the time he reaches the lab, after blasting Cake in the car the whole way, he has an idea of what to hunt for. He calls Wayne as soon as he has tests running in the lab.

Selina answers.

Dev remembers half a minute after he speaks about Wayne’s warning not to sound harsh, but she doesn’t hang up on him.

“Ask him if the world was bloody aquatic,” he demands. “Were they near a lot of bodies of water?”

“He says yes. And he’s getting worse.”

“Sod it all,” Dev mutters, looking at the computer analyzing one of the blood samples. “How bloody worse?”

“No, Bruce,” she says softly, her voice distant. Dev guesses the phone is pulled away from her face. “It’s okay, nobody else is here. No, you don’t need a batarang. I don’t know where your doctor put it. It’s okay.”

“How worse?” Dev repeats. “Just the hallucinations?”

“No, it’s muscle tension,” she says. “He won’t say it but I think he’s in a lot of pain. It’s getting hard for him to move.”

“Sod it all to bloody hell,” he exclaims, his suspicions gradually seeming rather confirmed. She hangs up on him.

He glances at the computer. He could wait. Or he could go right now, on gut instinct, because he is certain he’s right, he’s bloody well arrogant but also _right_.

He waits anyway.

When the computer beeps, he looks over the results, the graphed anomaly and it is not exact but it is close enough.

Fortunately, Gotham is a coastal city with a strange criminal history, and what he needs is available to sign out of the pharmaceutical room.

When he gets back to the flat, Selina Kyle is still on the couch and for a second, he thinks Bruce is asleep. But then the man groans and shudders and Selina is talking quietly to him again,

“It’s your doctor, the sexy one. He’s back.”

“Shut up, Selina,” Wayne growls, but it’s half-hearted and tense.

“Rhabdomyolysis, among other things,” Dev says, kneeling next to the couch with a syringe and a bottle. “You were wrong. The genetic material was bloody well similar. And it wasn’t opioid. They must have been dosing themselves and their weapons with sodding sea snake venom.”

“Will that even work?” Wayne asks, frowning at the syringe.

“You bloody ought to hope it does. If it doesn’t, I’ll be ringing Alfie _and_ Kent because it will officially be beyond the scope of my skills, however much it pains me to admit it. I’ve not the time or resources to hunt for answers without more data.”

Wayne’s response is to close his eyes and groan.

Dev jabs the syringe into his arm.

Then they wait.

An hour in, Selina asks, “How long so we give this?” and he sees that bruises from fingerprints are rising on her arms where Wayne has been holding on while drifting in and out of consciousness or hallucinating.

After a brief argument, he convinces her to switch places with him.

“Eight hours or respiratory or cardiac distress,” he says. “Whichever is first.”

Wayne’s grip is bloody _hard_. When Selina offers to switch with him again an hour after that, he refuses. He silences her argument with his stethoscope, pretending he needs to listen more intently to Wayne’s heart than he actually does.

“How did you know?” she asks, when he tosses the stethoscope on the table and runs a hand through his hair. “That it was sea snake venom?”

“The symptoms,” he says, trying not to wince when another muscle spasm wracks Wayne’s body and the man’s hand tightens on Dev’s other wrist. “Pathology is reverse engineering. And sea snake venom is a neurotoxin with neurological applications. I’ve read about misuse or harvesting complications.”

“How,” Selina makes a face, “is sea snake venom _harvested_?”

“It’s called snake milking,” Dev says. “And it is bloody terrifying.”

“Do you think it’s working?” she asks, standing and stretching. She looks over his shelf of movies.

“He’s not had a hallucination I’ve noticed in nearly twenty minutes,” Dev says, looking down at the head resting on his lap. He uses his free hand to push hair away from the surgical scar and examine it, as he should have done three days ago. “And I’m quite sure he’s actually sleeping now.”

The grip is still tight on his wrist but it’s relaxing, slowly.

“Do you know why he had you call me?” Selina asks, turning from the shelf.

“True love,” Dev guesses, raising an eyebrow.

Selina laughs a little bitterly.

“Close enough,” she says. “For him. He knows I won’t tell anyone else. Ever.”

Dev knows she’s asking now, where he stands.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” he says roughly. “I bloody well shouldn’t even be speaking to you about this.”

“Stop talking,” Wayne grumbles suddenly, letting go of Dev’s wrist and shoving himself up off the couch. “My head hurts. Where’s the bathroom?”

“Door on your left,” Dev says, rubbing his wrist and watching carefully to see how he’s walking. The other man’s posture is exhausted but relaxed, the tension and tremors gone.

“It’s working,” he tells Selina when the door closes. “You can go home if you’ve a need. It’ll probably be a few hours of observation yet, but I’m rather sure we’re bloody well on our way out of the woods.”

“Nah,” she says. “I’ll stay. You might need backup to get him to rest long enough. I can be…persuasive.”

“He’ll do what I bloody say,” Dev says, shouting toward the bathroom door, “or he’ll bloody well regret ever sodding coming ‘round and asking for my fucking help.”

“I already do!” Wayne yells back.

When Dev turns, sighing just from tiredness, Selina is grinning and has a sharp glint in her eyes.

“I like you,” she tells him.

“I bloody well love me, too,” he says, tossing the blanket on the floor and stretching out on the couch. “And I am so bloody glad that worked. I am a,” he looks up at the ceiling this time to shout, to be sure Wayne will hear, “bloody miracle worker! Healer of off-world maladies!”

“You’ve made your point,” Wayne says sourly from beside the couch.

“Take the bed, mate,” Dev says. “I’m not moving. Not sleeping; I’ve an eye to keep on your heart and brain. Just not moving.”

Selina is pulling Wayne by his arm toward the bedroom.

“C’mon,” Dev hears her say. “I’ll help you beat him up when you’re feeling better.”

“I won’t need help,” Wayne mutters, pausing by the doorway. He looks back. “Dev.”

“Sod off.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Dev says, putting a hand over his eyes. “It’s purely selfish. Medical curiosity. You’ve literally been off the planet and that is fairly bloody brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /obligatory "in case you forgot this was about comic books" chapter.


	16. Wayne, Timothy Drake. 07/19, #07 REP:09/29 LOC:C

A few weeks later they are nearing Halloween season and Dev knows there is _definitely_ something wrong with him, but he cannot quite figure out what.

The mobile wakes him and it is pitch black night outside and he is lying on the floor next to his couch. He fumbles for the mobile and it is a message from Timothy.

_dev i need u at the cave. need stitches on back of shoulder, not too deep._

Dev reads it twice and then climbs to his feet and grabs his keys on the way out the door. He feels bloody well asleep still and gets as far as the end of the outside hall before he looks down at his stockinged feet and swears. He trudges back for shoes and pulls them on and ties them halfway before going back out and down the concrete stairs.

On the way to the manor, twice he looks over and thinks there’s a boy sitting in the passenger seat looking straight ahead but there isn’t. He decides he definitely needs sleep after this.

When he gets to to the manor, he climbs the front steps and when he sees the engraved date in the polished marble of the framing around the door he has a flash of memory, just,

_DOB 04/14/99_

but he keeps walking. He looks back once in the hallway and the boy is standing there, not looking at him but looking straight ahead down the hall again. He frowns at him, bloody creepy kid, and goes to the elevator.

Dev feels so wrong, so fundamentally broken and he doesn’t know how he stands it most of the time. When the doors open, he takes a deep breath because he bloody has to, because this is what he does and how he lives and he must.

Wayne is at the computer but doesn’t turn to acknowledge him, which isn’t unusual. Timothy is sitting on the medical unit gurney with a plaster on his shoulder. He’s typing something up on a tablet, probably a report of the evening, and he’s working intently and doesn’t look up.

“Hey, Dev,” he says. “Alfred cleaned it and put a bandage on, but I wanted you to do the sutures. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“Nah,” Dev says easily. “It’s quite alright.”

That fucking awful boy is standing across the Cave and now he’s looking right at Dev.

Dev frowns at him, in what he hopes is a menacing way.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters.

“Something wrong?” Timothy asks, tapping his thumb against the delete key.

“It’s nothing,” Dev says, rummaging in the drawer for the suture gut he needs. He finds the package and puts on his gloves and when he pulls them on, he swears he can smell craniospinal fluid.

But it must just be from being so bloody shattered.

He glances over Tim’s shoulder while peeling the bandage off. The underside of the gauze is sticky and wet with bright red blood and the line of text across the top of the tablet jolts another flash of memory.

 _PT left posterior cranial trauma_.

Dev has the suture gut threaded onto a curved needle and gripped in the metal clamps he stitches with when the boy is standing right next to the gurney, blood dripping down the left side of his body. The boy turns to look at Timothy and one whole side of his skull is bashed in, raw and weeping gray and purple flecked with white.

There is definitely something wrong with Dev, he’s realizing with a pang of abject horror. He shakes his head to clear it and focuses on the line of torn skin across Timothy’s back. He can put all his mental energy into fixing this one thing and sod it, all of everything if he can’t.

“Dev,” Timothy says a little sharply, as if suddenly startled. Maybe Timothy sees him, too, the boy.

“Hm?” Dev says, trying to stay neutral in case it’s something else. He doesn’t want to come out as fucking mental just because of an assumption.

Timothy’s skin is hot and tight underneath the latex of his gloves, the bleeding mostly clotted but his whole shoulder is tensed and there are beads of blood surfacing at the middle again.

“Dev,” Timothy says again, whinging a bit.

“Fucking hold still, Timothy,” Dev says irritably at the same time the boy leans close to them and Dev can smell craniospinal fluid again and antiseptic alcohol and vodka.

“Bruce!” Timothy calls, in a strained voice, pulling away from Dev’s hands with the curved needle still in the edge of the gash.

And the metal in Dev’s hands is cold and hard and for a moment feels like the neck of a liquor bottle pulled from the back of a freezer, and then in an instant with a thunderclap of clarity, the boy with the bashed up skull is vanished and Dev’s hands have not the feeling but the memory of the vodka bottle being tipped upside down and down his throat on the floor in front of the couch and with wide eyes, he turns to the counter behind him where the local anesthetic bottle and syringe both sit untouched and unused.

Dev drops the tools in his hands like they are flaming hot iron pokers and in the same second Wayne shoves him away from Timothy. He hits the counter two meters away with a crack against his hip and he stands there, half leaning and holding his side, stunned.

“You,” Wayne is shouting, “sit the hell down and I’ll deal with you after.”

Dev nods and slumps to the floor against the cupboard door, one hand on his hip.

“Are you okay?” Wayne is asking Timothy in a quieter, gentler voice. Dev watches mutely as the other man tugs on a pair of gloves and fills the syringe with local and injects it into Timothy’s shoulder.

Timothy doesn’t look at him while they sit, waiting.

Wayne does. Wayne glares at him hard and long and Dev closes his eyes and sees everything all over again.

The life flight emergency case he was paged for.

The thirty second scrub in.

The wet swell of skin and hair over the crushed aftermath of an ATV handlebar slamming into the back of a sixteen-year-old boy’s bare head above and to the left of his neck.

The knowing, even as he was slicing with the scalpel and holding his hands up and back while the nurse suctioned away the blood and fluid that poured out, that this was a miracle beyond him.

The granules of bones and slush of pink right in the core of everything that a boy could ever be or think or do with the rest of his limbs or mind slipping out onto the table.

The plating on a tray at Dev’s side waiting to seal a hole that was too late, a yawning grave, and having to work anyway trying to salvage things until even with all the machines breathing and pumping and pulsing the boy went to code.

The five minutes Dev waited to call it while nurses and the other attending worked around him and his hands were on the dead boy’s shaved head, bits of antiseptic gel-slicked hair pale blond by his glove, stark and strange against the crimson.

The minutes after in the room where he stripped off his scrubs, flung the mask on the floor, and put his head in his hands and thought about just how fucking unfair the world was.

The walk down the hall to a private conference room where he sat down across from a weeping father and a blank-faced mother and was forced by his profession and his position to say the thing they had known he would say the second they were asked to wait for him in a solitary room:

“I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. DeWitt. We did everything we could. Ethan didn’t make it. He passed away in the OR twenty minutes ago. I’ll take you to see him as soon as he’s ready.”

The hateful look he had to see go from mother to father when she said without looking once at Dev, “I’m not Mrs. DeWitt. We’re divorced.”

The wailing that rose from the room when he walked away to slam his own head against a wall in a staff-only hallway when he stepped out to “give them a few minutes.”

The way they clung to each other when taken to the body, the hatred of thirty minutes before set aside in the face of their boy.

The shower, the report typed up, the drive home, the whiskey and then the vodka, the carpet on his face until the mobile woke him less than twenty minutes later.

And then the absolutely, thoroughly drunk drive across Gotham with Ethan DeWitt’s ghost sitting in the passenger seat and in his brain, looking out the window at the city he’d never see again.

It is hell inside him and it is a relief when Wayne drags him out of himself and back to his aching hip and Timothy walking toward the elevator and the sodding, justifiably angry face above his own.

The other man is shouting, not even waiting for Dev to stand.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t even want you to answer that. Go upstairs and sleep it off and don’t come back for a while. And if you show up _drunk_ to take care of one of my kids ever again, it will be the last damn time you ever work here.”

Wayne strides away and leaves Dev blinking on the floor.

Dev waits until he can hear typing coming from the computer platform and then he gets to his feet and scrubs down the counters and is sick in the sink and then scrubs that down, too.

Then he goes upstairs and has intentions to go sleep in his car because then at least he’d be out of the house but he doesn’t have the energy or the stomach to make it any further than the den, where he collapses on the couch and sleeps.

When he wakes, the lights are off but it feels like late morning and there’s a blanket over him.

Timothy is sitting with his back against the couch playing a video game.

Dev stirs and rolls over a bit before he remembers where he is or why he’s there and then his head is pounding like a stormy tide against rocky cliffs.

“Hey, what happened last night?” is the first thing Timothy says.

“I was drunk,” Dev says, squeezing his eyes shut again. “Bloody hell, I’m so sorry, Tim.”

“I’m not mad. Okay, maybe I’m a little mad. But I’ll get over it. I meant _why_ were you drunk?”

Dev opens his eyes and watches the game on the telly for a few minutes. Timothy doesn’t ask again.

“I lost a patient yesterday,” Dev finally says. “A lad a bit younger than you.”

“That sucks,” Timothy says, pausing the game. “You could have called me. Or Alfred.”

“I know,” Dev says quietly, sitting up. “Bollocks. I was bloody stupid. I know.”

“Bruce is still really pissed,” Timothy says, warning as Dev stands up.

“I’ve got to go,” Dev replies. “I’ll not be round for a bit.”

“I’ll come to your place,” Timothy says when Dev is at the door. “I’m not mad at you, Dev. It honestly sucks.”

“You should be,” Dev says to him, meeting his eyes. “I ought to know better.”

And he leaves.


	17. Wayne, Richard Grayson. 03/20, #03 REP:10/10 LOC:GF.

The notification pops up when he’s already sprawled on the couch with the controller in his hand. He accepts the call and the telly screen is filled with a smiling face at a bad angle. She’s not used to holding a device.

“Sidney!” Leena says, beaming. “I’ve missed you!”

“Hullo,” he says, sitting up. “Where has Kenji taken you now?”

Her smile falters and she says, “We’re in Tibet this week. He’s making breakfast.”

“Hullo, Sid!” the voice of his brother-in-law calls from off-screen.

“Are you alright?” she asks, lowering her voice. “Or are you so unhappy to see me? Did I not stay away long enough?”

Leena has always been good at cheering him up, even now when their conversations are separated by weeks or months. He laughs, a little tiredly, and rubs his eyes.

“Bloody hell, I’m glad to see you,” he assures her. “I’m just in a bit of trouble with my boss.”

“I’ll come beat him for you,” Leena says.

Dev tries to laugh but it turns into a giggle, high-pitched and ridiculous. The idea of Leena taking on Wayne breaks through days of moping.

“What?” she demands, offended. She flexes her arm. “I can take him! I climb mountains with these guns, yeah?”

“I’d let you,” he says, consoling. “But I bloody well fucked up. It’s my own fault.”

“You always feel that way,” Leena says, frowning.

“No, honestly this time,” Dev says, looking right at her in the slanted picture that fills the telly. “But I don’t want to talk about my sodding shite of a life right now. How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” she says, shrugging casually. “Busy doing something I love. It’s awful. I have to camp every night and eat weird food and listen to Kenji bitch about losing his hat like he does every base camp.”

“Have you tried a bonnet?” Dev suggests, motioning to his chin. “One that ties below?”

“Fuck you, Sidney!” Kenji calls out, laughing. His voice is loud enough that Dev guesses they must be in the same room.

Leena talks for close to a half an hour with occasional commentary from Dev; sometimes she asks questions he answers, but mostly he just wants to get bloody well lost in someone else’s life, something not his own head or the hell of memory.

She holds the tablet one-handed when Kenji passes her a plate, and she props the tablet on a table while she eats, the camera tilted so he can see only part of Leena’s head and most of the spread on the small table.

“Did Kenji just make you Eggs Benedict?” Dev asks, leaning forward to see as she stabs a bite with a fork right in front of the lens.

“On a cook stove,” Leena says proudly.

“Eggs fucking Benedict on a bloody cook stove,” Dev says, sighing.

“I’ve told you she just loves me for my food,” Kenji says off-screen, his words muddled as he speaks and chews at the same time.

“And your arse,” Leena says, laughing. The bottom part of her face is turned from the tablet now; she’s looking across the table and not at Dev.

Kenji yelps and Dev says, “Right then, bye, lovely chat, Lee.”

“No, no, Sidney, don’t go,” Leena says, pulling back and ducking her head down so her face fills the screen again. “Have breakfast with us. I promise I’ll leave Kenji unmolested while you’re on. We’ve only talked about me so far. What’ve you been up to? How’s your new mate, Timothy was it?”

This is the rhythm of their chats, the give and take of information across the gaps in their lives. The past few years Dev has filled his end with talk of research, of strange surgeries, of anecdotes about nurses or other doctors or tensions at staff meetings.

The last time they spoke, in the summer, it was a mix of older subjects and recounts of car rides and hikes scrubbed of surnames or deeper details.

But Leena remembers because she’s Leena. Of course she would.

Dev hedges.

“He’s alright, he’s–” Dev is interrupted by a knock on his own door, and Timothy himself calling through,

“Dev?”

“Come in,” Dev calls to him. He knows it doesn’t matter that the door is locked.

“Ooh, do you’ve company?” Leena asks, scrubbing Hollandaise sauce off her chin and making Dev think, _Eggs fucking Benedict, Kenji, honestly,_ just as the lock gives and the door swings open.

Timothy comes through the hall and stops at the edge of the room.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t know you were–”

“Come closer!” Leena calls from the screen. “I’ve a need to meet one of Sidney’s rare American mates! Let me see you!”

“You sound like a wicked witch,” Dev grumbles at her. “Luring in your prey.”

Timothy sits next to Dev on the couch and gives a small wave. Dev glances at him and is immediately flooded with concern; the boy seems bloody tense and on edge, stiff in his movements.

“And now I feel like a wicked witch,” Leena says flatly, “capturing children. How old are you? What’s your name?”

“I’m Tim and I’m seventeen,” Timothy says sourly.

“This is Timothy?” Leena asks, her face dipped low so Dev can see her raised eyebrow. “Your new best mate is a sodding seventeen year old kid, Sidney? Sorry, Tim.”

Dev has no bloody idea what to say to make this make sense to his sister. It’s not like he’d gone hunting after young blood like some sort of monster. They’d just gotten along well. He’s scrambling internally to think of what to say, expecting Timothy to shrug and say “it’s okay” to Leena because of course he would and the lad is clearly already anxious as bloody hell.

“Don’t tell me sorry,” Timothy snaps. “I’m sick of people pointing out my age. I don’t get along with most seventeen year olds and I’m sick of the ageism. Dev is like a brother or an uncle or I don’t even know what, he’s just Dev and he’s one of my best friends and I don’t care if you are sister, you aren’t going to sit there and criticize him from wherever the hell you are about _this_ one good thing either of us have going.”

There is absolute silence from the screen for a moment and Dev is staring at Timothy.

“You alright, mate?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Timothy says, glaring at him. And Dev sees it again, the intensity and determination that he sees sometimes in Wayne’s face, echoed in this boy who’s not been a boy for years.

“Well, then,” Leena says lightly. And Dev is glad that it’s her, it’s Leena, and she won’t stay bitter about this or hold a grudge because she’s always moving and doesn’t stick around with things physically or emotionally except for the anomaly of Kenji.

“Sorry,” Timothy mumbles, not really sounding sorry.

“Don’t be,” Leena says. “You’ve put me well in my place and I can see why you get along. Consider me right chastised. And we’ve a base camp to get to, Kenji’s just shown me the time. I’ll talk to you soon, Sidney. Love you!”

She’s already reaching for the end call button when he says, “Bye then, Lee, love you,” and the screen goes blank before he finishes.

“I chased your sister away,” Timothy says, sagging forward with his head in his hands. “I’m the worst.”

“You’re not the worst,” Dev says. “I’d bloody well tell you if you were. And Leena ends every call like that. She doesn’t fancy goodbyes. But you, _you_ I’m sodding worried about. What’s wrong?”

“Dick was shot,” Timothy says, standing. “He sent me to get you.”

“Bloody hell!” Dev says, springing to his feet. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Sod it all, Timothy–”

Dev stops.

The boy’s back is to him but the thin shoulders are shaking.

“It’s not bad. It just needs cleaned up,” Timothy says in a choked voice. “I would have said if…”

Dev puts a hand on Timothy’s shoulder, gently, and turns him around. The boy resists but turns, his face bent toward the carpet. He sniffles but his arms are stiff at his sides.

“Sod it all, Timothy,” Dev says gently. He pulls Timothy into a proper hug and squeezes.

“Bruce is still so mad at you,” Timothy says into Dev’s shoulder. “I’ve told him I’m fine like a hundred times now but he doesn’t care and I don’t know how to fix this. Alfred is angry at both of you and I’m just sick of all of it.”

“Timothy, you plonker,” Dev says fondly, pushing him away so he can grip the boy’s shoulders and look him in the eyes. “It’s not your job to fix it, yeah? I’ve messed up and your da is right to be miffed. But we’ll sort it ourselves.”

Timothy looks doubtful but he nods.

“Just promise…promise you won’t pack up and go if it takes him a while? Or I guess tell me if you need to leave.”

Dev holds out his hand.

“Promise,” he says. “Shake on it, Mr. Wayne.”

The boy laughs and shakes his hand.

“God, I’m a disaster,” Timothy says, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up and tugging on the strings so it cinches around his face. “I just want to hide in a cave for ten years and come back when everything is over.”

“Come on, then,” Dev says, tugging him along by his hoodie strings. “Let’s go take care of your brother.”

“Are you sure your sister isn’t mad?” Timothy asks as they go down the stairs outside the flat.

“Quite sure,” Dev says, looking around the car park. “How’d you get here?”

“Cab,” Timothy says, “I almost took Dick’s bike but it’s too cold. He’s still at his place.”

They pull out onto the road and Timothy exclaims, “Damnit, I didn’t even tell you what was wrong. He got shotgun pellet spray across his calf. Will you need anything that’s not in your kit?”

Dev doesn’t slow or turn around.

“Timothy,” he says seriously, “by this point in my shadowy career, I’ve got bloody well near everything in that kit.”

“Do you have coffee?” Timothy asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t really been sleeping and I could use some. Some more, I mean.”

Dev risks a glance away from the road to look again at Timothy’s face, peeking out from the drawn hood. Timothy is leaning against the window of the car.

“How much’ve you had today, mate?” Dev asks with some alarm. “When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

“I don’t know and I don’t know,” Timothy answers with a yawn.

“Bloody hell, Timothy,” Dev mutters, reaching back for the medkit and hauling it forward with one arm while he drives. He drops the heavy bag on the boy’s lap and says, “top compartment on the left.”

“Melatonin?” Timothy asks, reading the label.

“Take two of those and when we get to Dick’s you are getting in a sodding bed and sleeping.”

Dev doesn’t look at him again, keeping his eyes on the road. He takes a sharp right without using his turn signal and pulls up to the window in the empty drive-thru. When the speaker box crackles to life with a monotone prompt, he orders a decaf coffee.

Timothy takes the melatonin.

“Thanks,” Timothy mumbles when Dev hands him the coffee.

“You are shite at taking care of yourself, mate,” Dev tells him in reply. “And I fucking worry about you.”

Timothy nods and sips the coffee.

“It’s a good thing I have you around then,” Timothy says off-handedly.

It pierces Dev’s heart.

“Timothy,” he says, quietly, after merging into the interchange to Blüdhaven, “I’m bloody sorry about your shoulder.”

“Stop apologizing already,” Timothy says, slouching in the seat with both hands wrapped around the cardboard coffee cup. His thumb flicks at the peeling corner of the heat sleeve. “I already said I forgive you. I know you messed up, but you’re way too hard on yourself, Dev.”

Dev doesn’t say anything to that. He wants to protest: he’s being too easy on himself, if he’d been at the hospital he would have risked his license, he should maybe quit, he’s been a coward hiding in his apartment. But Timothy is so certain in the midst of all of Dev’s uncertainty that he cannot argue this thing that _must_ , after all, be a bloody lie.

He wants to believe it anyway.

He so very much _needs_ to.

Dev pulls into the car park for Dick Grayson’s flat and turns off the car. Timothy is half asleep, the nearly empty coffee cup tipping sideways in his hands. Dev extracts it from his grip and then climbs out and shoulders the heavy medkit.

He swings open the passenger door and holds it with his knee.

“On your feet, Timothy Wayne,” he says. Timothy yawns and stumbles up out of the car.

Timothy leads the way through the building and presses the floor button on the lift and gets them to the door all with his eyes half closed. He turns a key in the lock and pushes the door open and as soon as they’re in, Dev says, “Go lie down, mate, I’ll find Dick.”

The boy just nods and stumbles down the hallway.

“Hullo?” Dev calls.

“Dev?” Dick Grayson’s voice carries across from a room just beyond the small foyer.

When Dev walks into the room and swings the medkit onto the floor, Dick is stretched out on the couch with the TV on and a bowl of cereal in his hands. He’s mid-bite and waves his spoon at Dev, motioning to a chair, as he sits up and winces. His right leg is wrapped in white bandages but he looks otherwise fine. He sets the bowl of cereal down on the coffee table.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, beginning to unwrap the bandage. “Tim…Tim, uh, told me what happened, but you’ve spoiled me. I hate bothering Alfred with this kind of thing anymore.”

Dev bends over to look at the calf underneath the bandage as it comes away from the skin dry and slightly bloodied, tugging at the torn flesh.

“Oi, leave that,” Dev says, reaching for the kit. “Lie on the couch and I’ll take it off myself.”

He pulls a four ounce bottle of sterilized water out of his bag and then an absorption pad to spread under the leg before he dampens the bandage.

“Did Tim come back with you?” Dick asks as Dev gently works the white strips away from the skin.

“Yeah, and I’ve sent him to bed already.”

“See, this is why we need you. If I told him to go sleep he’d shoot daggers at me with his eyes and pour another cup of coffee.”

“There’s more than shotgun pellet in here, mate,” Dev says, looking over the wound now that it’s completely uncovered. “There’s a good bit of glass.”

“The blast took out a window. I happened to be a little too close. And I can’t figure out how to quite see it all, which is why I had Tim go get you.”

“It’s not too deep,” Dev says, prodding gently at part of the ragged skin. Dick hisses. “This red bit is a little worrying, though.”

He digs in the kit for a bottle of antibiotics and dumps four out and hands them to Dick.

“Get comfortable, mate. We’re going to be here a while.”

Dick is quiet while Dev sets out a mat to collect fragments and opens a package with tweezers inside.

The numbing agent is given a few minutes to work and then Dev starts pulling slivers of glass and bits of buckshot out of the tattered skin.

“Bruce will get over it,” Dick says after a few minutes.

Dev stops for a moment and then resumes working.

“I’m not well certain that he should,” Dev says.

“He’s going to. And I’m going to talk to him if he doesn’t soon. It’s not like you’re the only one in this family who’s messed up.”

“I’m not family, Dick,” Dev says firmly. “I’m just the sodding doctor.”

“Eh,” Dick says. “Tomato, tomahto.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed a day yesterday!


	18. Devabhaktuni, Kiran. 08/03, #00, REP:10/19, LOC:GMU,WM

It is early in the morning and Dev is staring blankly at an MRI scan, not seeing the scan in front of him but one from years and years before. He hardly slept the whole night and came into the lab as a matter of habit and out of the need to do something, to just work, to use his hands.

Every time he closes his eyes, he is chaos inside.

His mind is a thundering storm: sharp cracks of memory breaking into his thoughts, lightning flashes of surging emotion, the unrelenting rain of his desire and tendency to analyze and dissect.

Staring at the brain on the screen in front of him is like fitting a key into an old rusted lock and forcing it to turn.

When he’d left home all those years ago, he’d taken as little as possible with him. He’d gone without or bought what he needed when he could afford it. When he left England, he had more funds and had done much the same. He’s always been leaving boxes of things behind, starting over. He thought he’d done the same with all these fragments of his childhood, his youth-- shoving them into cardboard graves, tossing them in the dump of his past, leaving them behind like out-dated furniture and ill-fitting clothes.

But they are, he finds, still here, tumbling out of the rooms he’s opened in his mind. He went there to clean up the spaces, to dust the parts of himself that are a space for words like family and father and brother and home.

And finding them is like tripping over rubbish. He’s falling in the mess of his own neglected house, angry at the pain in his foot and throwing whatever he can lay a sodding hand on.

He stares at the MRI.

He remembers.

In this memory, he is forever on the floor of the kitchen puking over tile with blood dripping in his eyes, looking up and about for his da who had only seconds before let go of his hair. He stings all over and there is a dread in him like a gut wound. His whole mind feels wrong, like a green sky behind a blue tree, or a ship sailing underwater.

But he does not see his da. His da is gone.

It’s Leena there, and Rani, both crying. They are too young, they are only sixteen and fourteen. It is Leena who rings the police while he pukes and Rani who holds his shoulders, dabs cloth on his head and cries with him.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Leena says, taking the cloth from Rani and pushing it above his eyes so hard that it feels like she’s shoving his skull in.

“No,” he says, swallowing bile. “No, I slipped, it was my fault. Lee, it was my fault.”

Rani is sobbing and he wants to make her feel better. He wants to make her feel safe.

His mum is there now, and the police, and a paramedic and he doesn’t know how long it’s been and all he can say to them is _it was my fault, it was my fault, it was my fault_.

What he doesn’t say is _I disappointed him, I made him mad, I let him down._

And now, dripping into the memory of his own presumed responsibility, is the youth of Ethan DeWitt, the undeserved burdens he sees Timothy Wayne shoulder, the fierce refusal to settle for abuse that Stephanie Brown wields like a shield against her homelife.

And he remembers.

His shoulder out of socket when he cried because he’d smashed his foot in a school door.

The gash on his arm when his father hurled a plate at him when he’d whinged about supper.

Being thrown into a shower and scalded almost to blistering because he’d gotten the hall muddy.

Sitting on a damp roof shaking from fright and having a fever for the next two days because he wouldn’t clean a gutter.

His knees aching from kneeling on dry rice he’d spilled carrying in from the car boot.

And a dozen, a hundred others.

He had started it every time, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?

His da taught him Morse code, to ride a bike, to swing a cricket bat, to count his nines faster than anyone else in maths, how to tie a Windsor knot, how to shake a hand, to drive a car. His da had been strict but a good da, hadn’t he?

But Dev is still terrified of him, all the way across an ocean, all the way across twenty-four years of adulthood and six years of not even ringing home.

He had been just a kid. Just a sodding kid.

And now, wide-eyed and unseeing in front of the MRI of some stranger’s cancerous brain, his interior litany shifts from _it was my fault_ to _this is all his fault_.

Underneath his arrogance that he wears like a shield, his tender, guilty heart hardens into something more like anger, like fury, like rage.

He trembles with it.

It frightens him.

The rage and the fear of his own wrath cancel each other out and he is stuck, blinking at the scan, a kind of blank. He has the asinine thought that he is not getting any work done, so he closes the scan and goes up to his office.

He’s all the way to the desk before he realizes Wayne is sitting there in a chair.

“Dev,” the other man says, as way of hello.

The blankness is consumed by present grief. He hurt Timothy Wayne. He goes around shouting at people because he knows better than they do about themselves. Has he become his father, in trying to be someone his da would not be disappointed in or repulsed by? It is a deep and visceral dread and he feels himself all on the surface; surely, Wayne can see straight through him and what kind of person he is.

“Wayne,” Dev says, leaning against the edge of the desk and crossing his arms.

He should grovel. He should apologize again and again for what he did to this man’s son.

But he is a hurricane within himself, defensive and damned at once.

Wayne tosses a tattered medical journal on the desk and Dev picks it up.

It is an old issue of the journal _Neural Plasticity_ , an issue containing an article he had authored with minimal assistance from an older doctor he suspects mostly felt bad for him.

He flips open to the tabbed page, to his own article. There is a highlighted section.

Wayne starts speaking, quoting the text that is right beside Dev’s own thumb.

“‘The brain’s neural pathways are now widely acknowledged to have lifelong neuroplasticity, but it is often neglected that these same pathways have an astounding degree of elasticity. Currently utilized pathways are capable of inclusively gaining clinically unquantifiable limits when pressed into situations with extensive variables, i.e., when presented with circumstances or conditions not previously known to exist or be physically possible. The neural pathways determining motor and language skills are now experimentally provable to possess the rapid adjustment many associate with only the most casual of science fictions when, in fact, forced to cope with details outside of the global understanding of physical laws or boundaries, those same neural pathways can readily elasticize without suffering damage to the critical or mental mass of the individual.’”

“Oi, did you memorize _all_ of that?” Dev asks, his bewilderment and confusion crowding out his tumultuous thoughts. “I thought my video game study bit was impressive.”

“The first time I read that, I had just come back from my first off-world mission with the Justice League,” Wayne says, “and I was worried I was losing my mind. I felt fine, but I didn’t know if I’d even see it if it was happening, and I didn’t know what kind of stress it had put on my brain. When the nightmares were getting worse, I went looking for anything based in hard science to reassure myself. And I found that. And all your work with victims of extraterrestrial attack.”

Dev looks at the man calmly sitting across from him, a man who looks like he’s never bothered to have a nightmare in the whole of his bloody life.

“And so when you told me I would survive surgery, that I could be back within half the time most people did it, it wasn’t just that I was determined. It was because I believed you. I’d believed you before and you weren’t wrong then. You just didn’t know it,” Wayne says.

“I got nasty letters about that article for months,” Dev breathes. “‘Stick to your rotting comic books,’ and ‘leave the fiction out of science,’ and the lot. I thought I was going mad so I settled on something else.”

“I think you doubt yourself too much,” Wayne says. “You were more willing to face reality than most men.”

Dev’s chest goes cold. This sounds like something that is the bloody opposite of truth.

“I’m not good with emotional talks, Dev,” Wayne says bluntly. “But you are not a stupid man. Surely, you’ve lost patients on the table before without falling apart. What you did to Tim was irresponsible and can never happen again. I have reservations about you coming back to work. But it’s not like you, either, and I want to know what’s going on.”

“If I’m not resuming work-- and I bloody well agree that I shouldn’t-- why does it sodding matter?”

Wayne frowns at him.

“Dev,” he says, “because you’re a friend. You’re one of us.”

To hear it so casually and matter-of-factly from Wayne himself is what tears down his walls.

Dev sits in the other chair.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t bloody know what’s going on with me. I feel like I’ve gone mental.”

“Well,” Wayne says, standing and wrapping his scarf back around his neck, because it’s been a frigid October, “I’m not ready to ask you to come back to work. But that doesn’t mean you have to avoid the Manor. Come have tea with Alfred again. I know Tim thinks he’s angry, but I think he’s beside himself with worry. He gets over things faster than the rest of us do, sometimes. I think we’ve desensitized him to stupidity by this point.”

Dev is acutely aware of how much he doesn’t deserve this.

Dev is bloody well aware of how much he desperately needs and wants it.

He puts his head in his hands, feeling crushed by the weight of the morning.

“I’m so sorry,” he says finally, while Wayne stands there watching and waiting. “I’m so bloody sorry.”

Wayne’s hand is on his shoulder, a brief and steady clap.

“I know,” he says quietly. “If I thought for a second you didn’t understand, that it wasn’t eating you alive, I wouldn’t even be here. But I know it isn’t lost on you. Grab your coat. Let’s go now. Alfred won’t mind.”

Dev considers refusing. But he doesn’t really have much work to do. He’s been spending all the hours he can’t sleep at the hospital instead. He stands and takes his coat from the rack by the door. He’s sick of being alone.

Wayne doesn’t speak again until they’re almost to the Manor. Dev doesn’t even think of his hatchback until they’re halfway there and it’s an idle concern at most.

“While you’re there,” Wayne says, “you might as well update the inventory lists. I don’t know what the kids have used.”

Dev is almost certain that Wayne knows exactly what has been used and he understands that it is a small olive branch, the most that can be offered right now; the beginning of a bridge. He doesn’t know what it costs Wayne internally, but he knows he himself would not be willing to accept much more at the moment.

“If they’ve fouled up my system, there will be bloody hell to pay,” Dev says sourly, knowing Wayne will understand his need for verbal armor. Or hoping, at least.

“You mean my system,” Wayne says. “In my cave.”

This could be alarming, a major red flag for Dev to retreat like the devil himself was on his heels, except the edge of Wayne’s mouth turns up in a smirking grin.

Dev is quiet anyway, feeling assaulted from every side by thoughts about his father, himself, the Wayne family, his failures, his childhood. It’s all too much at once and it mutes him, holds his tongue against things he could or should say even just in passing conversation.

He follows Wayne into the Manor when they arrive and Wayne leaves him at the threshold of the kitchen, where Alfie is mixing something in a bowl at the counter.

Dev tries to say hullo and ends up needing to clear his throat instead. He hasn’t seen the older man for over two weeks and is dreading the anger that should be in the sharp, gray eyes. The anger he has every right to carry. Timothy Wayne is, for all intents and purposes, his grandson. And a son, in some ways, because Timothy is the sort of lad that muddles labels and defies gaps.

The older man turns and it is not anger in his eyes, but concern.

“Kiran,” he says, his voice cautiously even. “You’ve not been in a while. Would you care for some tea?”

“Yes,” Dev say, just barely managing to get the word out.

“Have a seat,” Alfie says, turning away from him. “I’ll heat the water.”

Dev sits at the table and resists the wave of comfort he feels just being here, in the manor, at this table, while Alfie gets out familiar tea cups. He doesn’t deserve it.

When Alfie sits across from him a few moments later with a tea pot and cups and saucers, Dev is nearly ready to get up and leave. It takes monumental effort to remain seated. Knowing he doesn’t have a car there to tear away in is one of the things that keeps him.

“Kiran, my boy,” Alfie says, “how’ve you been?”

“Bloody awful,” Dev says honestly. “And I’m so sorry about Timothy.”

“Timothy is enough of a man to decide for himself if he forgives you or not,” Alfie says. “And if he has, then I am content to follow suit. But I didn’t inquire as to your relationship with Timothy.”

Dev takes the offered cup of tea and sips it. He doesn’t know how Alfie always makes it so well. He’s missed it; even a few weeks away feels like years, after it has become part of his routine.

“Alfie,” he says, frowning at the tea, “I bloody well don’t want to trouble you…”

“You’ve not,” the older man says curtly. “I asked.”

“Sod it all,” Dev says at himself, before forcing himself into the question: “Do you think I could tell you about my da?”

“Of course,” Alfie says, taking his tea up from the table and settling himself back in the seat. “Tell me everything you’ve a mind to share.”

So Dev tells him, in the only way he can: detached and clinical and thorough, no longer making only vague allusions or attempting to shelter his father.

Dev tells him.

Everything.


	19. Wayne, Jason Todd. 08/16, #04 REP:11/07 LOC:GC

It is a November afternoon damp with unusually warm rain when Dev steps out of the OR after a reasonably successful surgery to find a small crowd huddled around a telly at the nurse’s station on the floor.

He's not done any medical work for the Wayne family since taking care of Dick Grayson’s leg, deferring even Steph’s text one night to Alfie. He knows he brought it on himself but even still it's starting to bloody chafe at him a bit.

It doesn't help that after his chat with Alfie, he's felt so fragile inside, as if a stiff wind could send him spiraling like a dry leaf. It is not a feeling he appreciates and he’s hungry for a distraction beyond the routine of hospital work.

But he wasn't hoping for a distraction like this.

“...city-wide recommended curfew of six tonight. Rest assured law enforcement will be working around the clock, but civilians can help keep themselves safe by staying indoors after dark.”

Dev glances at the window. It's only half past four, but with the gray sky and the autumn season, it's already nearly night out.

“What's going on?” he asks.

“Arkham breakout,” one of the nurses says after glancing at him.

“Who?” Dev asks, not worried that there's a bit of alarm in his voice. The hospital staff associates Arkham with particularly nasty and swamped periods of activity.

“Zsasz and Two-Face,” a blond nurse with a beard says. “And rumors about a third but no one’s confirmed it yet.”

“It's Penguin,” the first nurse who spoke to him says while scrolling on her mobile. “Twitter says, anyway. A couple people got pictures.”

“You can't trust Twitter,” someone scoffs.

“You can't trust the news,” she retorts. “Either way it could get ugly. My son’s school already canceled their Thanksgiving party after I busted my ass making an Indian costume.”

One of the other nurses glances at Dev at this. He ignores it and the glance.

The first one continues, “And then I didn't even get a thank you. The first words out of my son’s mouth were ‘it's Native American, mom.’ And then they cancel the party. Fucking Arkham.” Her tone goes up in pitch for her son’s line, imitating and mocking.

“GCPD is saying Penguin now,” the blond nurse cuts in.

“Bloody hell,” Dev breathes, itching to check his own mobile sitting on the desk in his office. He starts to walk away as the blond nurse is saying,

“Tell me about it. My shift was supposed to end at six, but I've already been scheduled for ER on call all night.”

Dev doesn't answer.

His mobile has a few missed messages or calls, all from earlier in the day, nothing urgent or relevant. All of them seem to be pre-breakout.

Dev grabs his coat and pulls his hat out of the pocket and is locking his office door when Tony Fabriello strides by, stops, and says,

“Where are you going? You're on-call. Didn't you check the new schedule?”

“I hadn't,” Dev admits, his hand still on the key.

“It's all you, kid. My wife is gonna kill me if I don't get her and the granddaughters outta town by six.”

Tony is already walking away again when Dev calls, “Tony, I've just been in surgery since five in the morning! I need to sleep!”

In response he gets a middle finger in the air and, “Sleep in your office, kid. You don't have anyone at home to rush to anyway.”

Dev sighs and reopens the office door.

By ten that night, he still hasn't heard anything from anyone and is dependent on news and reluctant to bother Timothy or be a distraction.

He restocks and rechecks his medkit three times, just in case. Worry has kept him awake and distracted and he eats a granola bar for dinner with an eye on the GCPD chopper camera the local news is airing.

At eleven, he's paged by the ER. It's unrelated head trauma that the head ER doctor wants him to look at the scans of. He's relieved it doesn't mean surgery for entirely selfish reasons.

He falls asleep around midnight on the couch in his office, his mobile in hand.

And he knows that if it rings, even if it means leaving the hospital without a neurosurgeon, he will go.

The buzzing wakes him and he answers without looking at the screen.

“ _94500 GULL ROW,_ ” Wayne shouts at him through the mobile speaker. Dev is confused for a moment and then it dawns on him. He's not being asked to come to the Cave. There's a roaring noise in the background. “94500 Gull Row! I'll meet you there, don't go in without me, he has Jay!”

There is clear panic in Wayne’s voice. The line goes dead.

Dev runs. He uses his keycard to take a few bags of Type O blood just in case, anticipating the worst.

He speeds across the city without a thought as to what he is going to do or what it means for him. All he knows is that he was called again, he is needed, and he's the doctor. Any feelings or memories from the past few weeks are gone from his head without a trace, consumed by the words, _he has Jay._

The mobile GPS directions can barely keep up with him near the end and his hatchback skids into the car park of a large, rundown warehouse.

He realizes he has no idea how he'd know if Batman made it there before him or not, so he disregards instructions and goes right through the swinging, half-attached door under the numbers 94500.

It is dark inside, but faint light and noise are coming down a set of stairs and he sprints up them with the medkit on his shoulder.

He thought he had been prepared for the worst.

Jason Todd is on the floor surrounded by glaring construction lights, his face covered with blood and bright, vivid red blood all around him on the floor. Batman is kneeling, pressing on a wound just inside the boy’s elbow. The other arm is cut, too, and Dev drops to his knees on that side, pulling a tourniquet from his bag.

The cuts are deep lacerations that are ragged and severed the brachial arteries on both sides from the look of it. Dev tightens the tourniquet with one hand while throwing the other at Batman.

“Why the hell did you turn your mask off?” Batman is asking Jason. The boy is conscious, just barely, and shaking. The blood flow is slowing with the tourniquets but not completely stopped.

Dev sees the mask now, a few feet away with a bloody handprint on it and smears on the floor.

“Damnit, Jay, why weren't you fighting him?”

“Sod the hell off,” Dev snaps at Batman.

“He…” Jason swallows and passes out, almost immediately comes to again. It makes Dev nervous, even with his physician’s detachment. He sees people fight like this when they're dying, when they have something final to say.

“He said he had Stephanie,” the boy rasps. “Zombie Robin hunting.”

Dev does not need to see Wayne’s face to know that this strikes him, and hard. The man's whole body, entire posture, reacts in a jerking, tight way.

“Do you have what you need?” Batman asks.

“I have blood and clamps,” Dev says. And he knows Batman will trust him if he called him, he knows the man will believe him again this one time, and so even though he is not certain he can keep this boy alive, he says, “I can handle this. Go.”

There is a moment of hesitation and then when Dev looks up again, Batman is gone.

Jason is unconscious.

And looking down at him, his uncertainty flees. His hands do not shake. He can and will save his life, even if it is a thing that cannot be done, because of who he is.

There are many things he doesn't know about himself or the world around him, but he does know this:

He is a bloody miracle worker.

He is a fucking brilliant surgeon.

He is, at his very core, a _good doctor._

Dev tightens the tourniquets, judging at this point that the risk of compartment syndrome is worth the preserved heartbeat.

He puts gloves on and sanitizes them, wipes Jason’s face off so he can see how serious the head wound is. It's only just seeping dark blood and not very deep, comparatively.

Dev checks Jason’s pulse, arranges things on top of the medkit for easy access without a nurse, and picks up a pack of suture thread.

Then everything goes black.


	20. Wayne, Jason Todd. 08/16, #04 REP:11/08 LOC:GC

Dev startles awake with a gasp and sob of pain. He looks down at himself, stunned. The back of his head throbs and he sees a bloodied steel pipe not far from him. His memory is rushing back in disordered pieces.

Jason is right next to him on the concrete floor and there is blood everywhere, all over the floor and Jason and Dev himself. Jason is pale, too pale, and his breathing looks inconsistent and labored.

There are bags of fluid and blood in the medkit just ten feet away and Dev tries to stagger up to get them, to finish what he was doing, but he’s jerked back down by his own limbs.

Then he sees it.

His hands have been bound with zip ties so tightly they are turning a purplish blue, and one second they feel like nothing and the next they feel like death creeping up his arms. Third and fourth zip ties have bound him to Jason’s arm.

“Oh, bloody fuck, no,” he exhales, struggling to his knees. He pulls at the ties with his fingers but they are too tight and his fingers don’t seem to be cooperative.

“That’s what you get,” a sing-song voice says from across the warehouse. A man covered in tabbed and marked scars is leaning on a wall, watching them and playing with a knife in his hand.

“Get?” Dev echoes, rasping.

“When you try to save zombie boys,” the man says. Zsasz, Dev finally realizes. “The whole point is they’re already dead.”

Dev cannot get a finger under the ties but he can wedge his mobile out of his pocket. He’s suddenly so glad that he and Timothy programmed stupid names into each other’s mobiles, well enough glad to almost cry.

“Hey, Siri,” he says, “call Pint the Mage.”

“Calling Pint the Mage,” the phone answers.

Across the room, Zsasz face darkens. He strides toward them, now with a knife in each hand.

Dev fumbles the phone just as he reaches them and Zsasz stomps on it with the heel of his steel-toed boot. It crunches. Dev has no idea if the call went through but he determines right then he won’t give Zsasz the satisfaction of his visible upset.

“Nuh-uh. Would-be zombie helpers don’t get back-up. Haven’t you seen The Walking Dead? Your kind get,” he puts two fingers to Dev’s head, jabbing them hard into the skin of his temple, “ _pkshew_. Offed.”

“I don’t go in for American telly,” Dev says, meeting the man’s eyes. “It’s low-brow.”

Zsasz’s eyes widen in delight.

“Oh, a proper _English_ doctor, and a colonial import at that. Well, then, some explanations are in order.”

“No, thanks,” Dev mutters, “I’ll stay shrouded in ignorance if you don’t mind.”

And one of the knives is under his chin, the tip pressed into flesh. He realizes belatedly and in terror that he should absolutely bloody not press his luck here.

“I am going to fucking explain some things,” Zsasz hisses in his ear. “And you are going to be a _polite_ absurdly tall British gentleman and listen. Afterward, you can even tell me how _nice_ it is before I cut your fucking tongue out.”

“Right-o,” Dev says, swallowing. The tip of the knife pulls back. “So sorry. I am rather in the mood for a story after all. Brilliant.”

“Better,” Zsasz says, sitting cross-legged next to him. “Now, where to start. I don’t know how _much_ you know and I don’t want to skip the best parts. They’re the _interesting_ ones.”

Dev’s hands are throbbing and he’s sweating. He glances at Jason.

“Pretend I’m a babe in the woods,” he says. “Tell me everything. Make a bloody good show of it.”

Zsasz laughs and spins a knife on one finger.

“I like you,” he says. “You’re clever.”

Dev wants to be sick all over the boots but he resists.

“So,” Zsasz says, pointing with the knife at Jason, who is starting to look ashen. “Once upon a time, a friend-- no, an acquaintance-- of mine, took home the gold medal. He went after the Bat but then he got smart. He killed the _boy_ instead, the sidekick, the pretty little bird.”

“You say bird and it makes me think of a woman I might want to shag,” Dev interjects, stalling. It’s absolute bollocks; he can’t remember ever wanting to shag anyone in the whole of his life. “Use proper nouns, if you please. My head’s a bit thick.”

“Robin,” Zsasz hisses, irritated, poking Jason with the knife. The boy doesn’t react.

Dev _has_ to stop antagonizing him. It’s like it pours out of him without intention.

“I was going to be poetic but if you’re so dense, I shouldn’t waste my time. He beat and blew up a Robin. _This_ Robin, to be precise, a fact I was made aware of only two weeks ago. And you know, with _all_ my marks,” Zsasz offers an arm in front of Dev’s face, showing off the scars, “I’ve _never_ made a cut for a zombie? They’re all for the dead, obviously, but to spare someone the agony of _undead_ life, now that’s new.”

“Ja–” Dev catches himself. His hands ache so badly he doesn’t even want to spare them a glance. “This Robin isn’t dead. He’s almost, thanks to you, but he isn’t yet.”

“Oh, but he _was_ ,” Zsasz says gleefully. “Months in the ground. Years away from ‘dear Daddy Bats’ to quote my acquaintance. Came back with a mean streak, too. Makes some Arkham regulars nervous.”

Dev’s mind is churning.

“ _I was dead once,_ ” he can hear Jason saying casually to Dick, to Timothy, to Damian, to Steph. To Wayne. Never to Alfie. He’d thought it was a sodding joke. But this family…this epicly weird family. His face gives him away.

“You didn’t know!” Zsasz exclaims, tossing a knife in the air and catching it with his teeth. “Ta-duh,” he says softly, taking it out. “I’m not usually one for talk but this is going to join the classics, as far as stories go. You’re a medical professional. Want to help me end it? I can only imagine an abomination like this just makes your scientific skin crawl.”

Zsasz leans over now, holds the knife under Dev’s chin again. With his other hand, he starts loosening the nearest tourniquet.

“Don’t,” Dev says and the knife presses deeper into his jaw. It hasn’t broken skin yet but it’s close.

Dev’s heart is in his ratty black trainers, the Converse ones that are now certainly ruined with blood and warehouse muck and should have been replaced eons ago anyway.

He closes his eyes and tries not to weep.

Dead for _months_. That wretchedly poor boy. Brought back to life for this hell. Because the leap from hearing to believing is a short one for him these days, he doesn’t waste time wondering if it’s true. It fits in with all the exchanges and tensions he did not quite understand before.

“You,” Dev says, right fed up, looking over at Zsasz, just as the man undoes the tourniquet, “can sod off.”

If he had planned it, he couldn’t have planned it more perfectly, because it is that moment that Red Robin soars through a window opposite them, right over Jason, and kicks Zsasz square in the chest. They go rolling and tumbling away from Dev and Jason.

There’s a knife on the ground that Zsasz drops and Dev works Jason’s arm around so he can grab at it without breaking wrists. His fingers feel like wood but he _thinks_ them into working just enough to sort of grip the handle and he saws at the ties linking his arm with Jason’s.

He glances up to see how Red Robin is doing and the boy is fast, he’s all fury and tightly controlled motion, more than holding his own in a one-sided knife fight. He’d have Zsasz down for good in another second, but the window beside them explodes in a spray of shattering glass and Batman is standing between Red Robin and Zsasz.

Dev is a good fifteen meters away and Zsasz is starting to talk, his words muffled by the distance, but Batman doesn’t try to interrupt or reply. Dev can hear the wet _clunch_ of shattering jaw bone when Batman’s gloved fist flies forward and makes solid contact with Zsasz’s face. The villain sinks to the ground and doesn’t move.

“Call Jim Gordon,” Batman says to Red Robin. He’s already walking toward Dev and Jason. “Tell him to bring back-up but to come in alone.”

Batman crouches by Dev and takes the knife and slices through the ties with a single motion.

“Jason,” Dev says. “Bugger me, check Jason.”

Batman doesn’t wait for more urging. He retightens the tourniquet and checks.

“His heartbeat is rapid,” he says to Dev.

“Get my kit. Start a transfusion,” Dev says and then he turns to Timothy, “Red, some help.”

Red Robin has just finished talking on the phone, his eyes locked on them, and the next second he’s at Dev’s side and taking Dev’s hands in his own.

“Cut them off,” Dev orders, finally actually looking at the zip ties around his wrists, at his hands.

Beside them, Batman is putting an IV in Jason’s leg, the bag hooked on a collapsible frame from the medkit.

“I’m working on it Dev,” Red Robin answers, trying to get the knife beneath the zip ties. “I can’t get under…”

“Cut into the sodding skin, I don’t care. I cannot lose my hands,” Dev says. All his reserve is spilling over into personal dread now. This is who he is, all of who he is that matters.

Red Robin meets his eyes. The mask obscures Timothy’s eyes, but his voice and body are now calm all over. He drops the knife.

“Dev, you won’t. I’ll cut them. Hold still because it’s going to hurt.”

There is a batarang, the edges razor sharp, in Red Robin’s hand and he presses it against the zip ties. They are unyielding for several frightened seconds. Then they give and Dev’s wrist stings with blood rushing into the area and then pouring out of the cut.

“Shite,” Dev breathes as he realizes. There’s another cut across his wrist, previously obscured by the zip tie which had fit right against it. The swollen skin had helped to hide that it was essentially a stopper in a slot.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Batman demands, dropping the medkit at Dev’s side. He checks Jason’s pulse again.

Red Robin does the other arm without slowing and Dev is rubbing his hands together willing them to work, while blood seeps over his palms and down around his fingertips.

“Shite,” he says again. The second wrist is the same way. His hands still feel like wooden attachments.

“Dev,” now, after all of it, Red Robin’s voice sounds a little shaky, studying the slices Zsasz made. “I can’t. There’s no way glue would…I can suture them but it’ll take a few minutes.”

“What do you have that’s hot,” Dev asks, pressing his fingers into each other, waiting for them to feel.

“I have a miniature torch but–”

“Use it. Cauterize them. Your brother is bleeding out and I will not risk infection dripping my blood all over him. And I cannot lose my hands.”

“It’s going to hurt,” Red Robin warns.

“Never sodding stopped me,” Dev insists, holding out his bleeding wrists. “Right now.”

“Do it,” Batman commands while wrapping Jason’s arm.

Red Robin’s skin is the color of bleached paper when he sets the tiny directed-flame torch near Dev’s skin.

“Ready?” he asks as blood drips around them.

Dev nods, his teeth gritted.

Red Robin does one wrist and then the other, ignoring Dev’s cries and cursing. The smell of burnt flesh fills the warehouse room. When he finishes, he’s crying, too, under the mask.

“I’m so sorry, Dev, I’m so sorry.”

“Get up,” Dev orders roughly. “Find the package of vascular clamps and then help.”

Red Robin nods and digs through the medkit. Dev flexes his hands and wraps gauze around his wrists. He puts latex gloves on again and stretches each stubborn finger until his range of motion is returning with the excruciating return of blood.

Then he turns to Jason and gets to work, and his hands do not shake. He tears open a packet of orange antiseptic liquid and scrubs it over his gloves.

He kneels in the scarlet grime around them, balances packages of suture gut on his lap, and clamps back the skin of Jason’s arm.

He is calm in a storm. He registers each next step, working quickly without rushing or driven by panic. If his wrists or head hurt, he does not feel them now.

But the work is too far away, too small, too dim.

“Hold a light,” he orders, expecting that it will happen, and a beam of light shines on the arm. The ragged layers of dermis give way to the faintly pulsing torn artery and he holds a hand out.

“Vascular clamps,” he says to Timothy and they are in his hand.

He clamps the opposing ends of the artery and within a second they’ve gone rubbery white with lack of blood. The world could burn down around him and he wouldn’t notice right now. But he still can’t see, threading suture gut as he glares at the arterial ends.

Dev drops to his stomach on the warehouse floor so he can better make out the artery as he hooks the curved needle through first one end and then the other, drawing the gossamer-thin strands taut before pulling the ends of brachial artery together.

He is halfway through when a movement by the clamp catches his attention.

“Check his pulse,” he orders without looking up.

“Rapid,” Batman answers. “No, it’s slowing.”

Dev stitches while stretched on the floor.

“Get ready to perform CPR,” he says.

“Stopped,” Batman says and he starts chest compressions.

“Don’t move, Timothy,” Dev snaps, when the light sways for a moment. It corrects.

He’s nearly finished with the artery and Batman is counting under his breath. Batman replaces one count with “damn it, Jay,” and tips the boy’s head back to breathe into him.

The lungs go up and down as Dev works and he ties off the artery.

“Replace that unit of blood,” he says, using his elbows to climb back to his knees, keeping his hands carefully away from the germ-ridden mess of gore beneath him.

He tears off the gloves and drops them to the floor, digs through the medkit for biodegradable suture gut and other supplies, then pulls on new gloves and repeats with the orange antiseptic.

Dev’s hands fly through the stitches across the subdermal layer and then he throws the leftover suture gut and those gloves on the ground, too.

“Wrap this arm, I’ll come back to finish,” he tells Timothy, while grabbing more suture and then replacing his gloves. “Then come around with the light.”

Batman is on chest compressions again but he’s at twenty three on his count.

“At thirty, we switch sides,” Dev says and there’s a barely perceptible nod. A second later, when Batman moves to force oxygen into Jason, Dev steps over the body and drops to his stomach again.

“Do you need to switch with Red?” he asks, when Batman starts compressing Jason’s chest once more.

“No.”

Dev doesn’t argue, already drawing severed artery to severed artery and tying.

Suddenly, his vision of the arm in front of him swirls violently and he remembers that he has a head wound of some kind. He ignores it and squeezes his eyes shut, reopens them and focuses.

There’s the sound of footsteps clomping on the stairs at the end of the building. Dev does not look up or stop working, but the ache in his head has drawn him out a bit.

“Christ,” the newcomer exclaims. “Do you need an ambulance?”

“No,” Batman says.

“I’m the bloke they’d be bloody driving him to,” Dev snaps, even though this isn’t entirely true.

“Zsasz is over there,” Red Robin says more helpfully. “Nightwing and Robin are out looking for Two-Face. Batgirl and Black Bat are looking for Penguin.”

“Help Jim,” Batman says to Red Robin. “Nobody needs to be alone with Zsasz.”

This, even though Zsasz hasn’t moved or twitched since Batman bashed his jaw in. He has moaned occasionally though.

“Don’t move my bloody light,” Dev snaps, drawing another stitch through.

Red Robin doesn’t move.

“I’ve got him, B,” Jim Gordon says. “I’ve got guys just downstairs.”

Batman doesn’t answer and Red Robin doesn’t move the light.

Dev ties off the final stitch on the artery.

“Go,” he says to Red Robin. “You’re done.”

Dev takes the light and holds it himself, removes clamps with one hand. Maybe he’s too arrogant, but he doesn’t doubt the sutures will hold. The artery pulses faintly with the compression of the chest and runs deep purple red, a bit more with each pulse.

He sways with dizziness when he climbs to his knees. When it passes, he turns his head to check the second blood bag. It is two-thirds drained.

He looks at it for a moment and then puts a hand on Batman’s shoulder, on top of the body armor and the cape.

“Leave off a second,” he says. “He’s got nearly two units in him. Let’s listen.”

“He lost more than that,” Batman says, but after four more compressions he stops and sits back. Dev puts his fingers on Jason’s neck and closes his own eyes to block any distractions.

“I don’t have anything,” Batman says, his own hand on Jason’s wrist. “I’m going to start again. I have dopamine in my belt.”

“Use it,” Dev says, his fingers still on Jason’s neck. “The arteries are closed.”

Batman depresses the syringe into Jason’s chest and is about to start compressions again when Dev lifts one hand.

“Hold off.”

Dev keeps his fingers on Jason’s neck and Batman tears off the cowl and puts his ear right to Jason’s chest.

There is a faint beat, growing in strength and regularity. It is thready and unstable but beating on its own, gaining power and proper pacing with every few seconds.

“Bloody hell,” Dev says.

Red Robin is right beside him again, back from helping Jim Gordon.

“Is he…”

“God, Jay,” is all Wayne says, his eyes closed. He doesn’t move his ear from Jason’s chest.

“I’ve got 60 bpm and rising,” Dev says, counting, as if reporting in the OR. “Timothy, start saline and that antibiotic I brought.”

Dev pulls his hand back and exhales, blinking away another wave of dizziness.

"Tell me bloody _immediately_ ,” Dev says to Wayne, weary and flagging, “if he gets above 140 or starts dropping again.”

Wayne nods.

He finds more suture gut, replaces his gloves, sterilizes, sews subdermal layer back together over the artery.

“Wrap this,” he tells Timothy.

Dev’s hands are so tired. He is registering it now even though they aren’t done. He is shattered, exhausted to his bones. But he starts to work on Jason’s forehead, the cut near the hairline only slowly sleeping blood. Zsasz had made it almost to bone trying to lobotomize the kid before he’d given up and moved on to easier, less thematic targets.

He wipes the head wound with medicated gauze. He begins suturing.

“I’m going to go help Batgirl,” Red Robin says.

“Selina is with them,” Wayne replies. “Make sure Jim doesn’t try to take her in.”

“Alright,” Red Robin says. “You want to update O or should I?”

“You,” Wayne says. “I’ll be out there to help Nightwing as soon as Dev is done.”

Dev’s hands want to shake and for one of the first times ever while suturing, he has to put effort into keeping them steady. They’re on fire from the wrists up along his forearm and lacing down around his fingers.

He uses tiny, perfect stitches, even now. One after another after another after another after another.

His residency in Cardiff had involved a rotation in the emergency services department. There had been a terrorist bombing of a crowded café and pub during a national football tournament that spring.

He had stayed long past the end of his shift, like everyone had, stitching and treating burns and cauterizing and taping and assisting in two amputations. Everyone had stayed, but the senior doctor had pulled him aside after to have a whiskey in his office and he’d said,

“I’ll write your referral for after residency if you’ve a need of it. It’s been years since I’ve seen a student work as well at the end of an emergency shift as he did at the beginning. You’ve a gift, Devabhaktuni. I’m well glad it’s not being wasted.”

Those words alone had buoyed him through hellish months of thirty hour shifts and a miserable rotation in pediatric oncology. They’d become part of his internal make-up, his understanding of himself.

So even though he’s lost track of how many minutes it’s been of suturing faster than he’s ever worked, even though his wrists are well damaged, even though his head aches and he’s dizzy if he so much as sits up all the way, these last stitches across Jason Todd Wayne’s forehead are going to be bloody well perfect because he is a bloody, sodding, fucking _artist_.

He ties off the final suture feeling a bit like he’s just sprinted the whole of a marathon.

“Done,” he says, sitting back. “And I’ll finish with his arms. I’m not ready to move him yet, so don’t bother. Come back for us in a bit.”

Wayne doesn’t move for another minute.

Dev wants to lie down and sleep right next to Jason on the sticky, dark brown floor.

“Okay,” Wayne says, lifting his head and kissing Jason on the forehead below the sutures. He stands.

Dev snaps yet another pair of gloves on. It’s good that it’s only the top layer of skin he’s got left, because he’s on his last two packages of suture gut and they’re both thicker gauges.

“I’ve not a mobile,” Dev says. “It was smashed to bits.”

“I’ll come back,” Wayne says, pulling his cowl back into place. “Keep an eye on his pulse.”

“I’m not a bloody first year,” Dev says, as if tiredly following a script. There’s not even false ire in it because he can’t muster any.

“I know,” Batman says. “Dev…”

“No weeping,” Dev says sharply. “No tearful exclamations of gratitude for the wonder I just worked. Later, over tea, where we can properly cry and you can tell me how it is that this boy almost died for the _second_ time because I am well intrigued.”

“Thank you,” is all Wayne says.

“I’ve told you all along I’m just here because you’re medically fascinating,” Dev says, his hand on Jason’s neck again. “But I get the sense that no one will bloody believe me.”

He turns but Batman is already gone.

Dev sutures then, carefully undoing the gauze bindings and then removing the tourniquets after he finishes.

Dev puts ointment on all the sutures and wraps them. He adjusts the antibiotic and saline drips, starts another blood bag. They’re in the warehouse for an hour and Jason’s pulse holds steady.

“Hey,” Jason says hoarsely, just as Dev is nodding off with his hand against Jason’s neck again.

Dev snaps awake and looks down at the boy’s face.

“Hullo, Zombie Boy,” he says. “You’ve had a right terrifying night. How do you feel?”

“Like I’m in pieces,” Jason says savagely but softly.

Dev looks him over, at bandages on his arms and across his forehead.

“Quite close,” he says.

Jason coughs and winces.

“You don’t look too fricking hot yourself there, doc.”

“I’ve not had my beauty sleep,” Dev replies, looking down at himself. His shirt is covered with browning blood and dirt, and his trousers, too. There’s hardly an inch of him clean. “You interrupted it.”

“You’re going to say no,” Jason says, “but I would kill for a fucking cigarette.”

“Only if you’ve one for me,” Dev sighs. “Not since secondary but I’ve a need of a smoke this morning.”

“I have three in my helmet,” Jason answers, trying to gesture with his hand. He lets his arm fall and says, “frak,” under his breath.

“Frak, indeed. Don’t move your arm,” Dev says, stumbling to his feet. He staggers across the warehouse, now being softly lit with faint pink sunrise through the broken windows. The helmet is in the shadows, kicked there at some point, but halfway there he has to stop and lean over, palms braced on his knees, to keep from passing out.

Once the dizziness fades, he tries again and this time makes it back to Jason with the helmet in hand. There’s a compartment in the helmet with three cigarettes and a lighter, but it takes five minutes of attempted explanation from Jason and searching from Dev to find them.

Dev lights the first one and takes a long draw on it, then holds it between his teeth while lighting the second on the other side of his mouth. He moves the second to Jason’s mouth and holds it for him.

When Batman does return, half an hour later, they are sharing the third cigarette, Dev holding it while Jason inhales. Dev suspects they look like a picture from a WWI trench, shell-shocked and pale and covered in blood Dev has not the energy to begin to clean, smoke drifting from their lips by turns.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” Batman says wearily, standing in front of them.

“Fuck off,” they reply in unison.

“Hn,” he replies. “Alfred is on his way with the van. Is he up to being moved?”

“I’m right frigging here, B,” Jason says faintly. “Gor _ram_ , just ask me.”

“I think so,” Dev says mildly. “But I’ve no idea how much help I’ll be. I’m seeing stars. And colors I don’t know the names for. What do you call a chartreuse with purple in it.”

“Brown,” Batman says, stooping behind him to look at the spot Zsasz where smacked him with a pipe across the head.

“Are they all locked up?” Jason asks, while Dev holds the cigarette to the boy’s mouth again.

“Yes,” Batman answers. “In medical units.”

“Good,” Jason sounds satisfied by this. “Tell Alfred to bring stronger painkillers. I’m a baby.”

“Is anyone else injured?” Dev asks, making an effort to rally himself just in case. “I’m done with this,” he says to Jason, nodding to the cigarette he still holds for him.

“No,” Batman says. “Did you bring any ice packs?”

“I rather don’t remember,” Dev says, closing his eyes. “Bloody hell.”

There’s the sound of chemicals sloshing around in plastic and then something blessedly cold on the back of his head.

“Is there anything you _don’t_ have in that belt?” Dev asks, lifting his free hand to hold the ice pack himself.

“Fruit snacks,” Jason says, blowing smoke in Batman’s direction. “I campaigned hard for those little fuckers once. He said they were too noisy.”

“Still true,” Batman replies, crouching next to them. He tears open a package of shark fruit snacks and hands it to Jason, taking the cigarette and grinding it out under his boot.

“ _When you love something it loves you back in whatever way it has to love_ ,” Jason says, shaking the entire pack into his mouth at once.

“I hate that book,” Batman says stiffly. “And don’t choke on those.”

“I died once,” Jason says, chewing slowly. “I’m not going to go out on fruit snacks.”

“You died twice,” Dev amends. “Your sodding heart stopped tonight. For more than twenty minutes.”

Jason’s eyes widen and he looks at Batman, who nods.

“Well, then,” he says quietly. “I’ll need to update my Twitter profile.”

“Don’t make it a habit,” Batman says sternly. Or it would be stern, if his breath didn’t catch on the last word.

“Okay,” Jason says, handing him the empty fruit snack wrapper. “I won’t. For your sake, you old man.”

“I’ve arrived,” Alfie’s voice comes up the stairs. “The van is parked inside. Do you require assistance?”

“Bring up the field stretcher,” Batman shouts back. “And Dev’s going to need a hand.”

“Or a couch and a cuppa,” Dev says.

“Good Lord,” Alfie says when he climbs the stairs.

“It’s worse than it looks,” Jason says.

“No, it’s bloody not,” Dev says.

“Ignore them both,” Batman says, standing and taking the boxy, orange bag from Alfie. He begins assembling the field stretcher where he stands and Dev considers checking the antibiotics and saline and blood bags, but he looks over at Jason and decides not to try moving yet.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” he says out loud. “Perhaps I’m mental after all. Because I should be well terrified after tonight but I’m just bloody knackered and miffed.”

Alfie is looping Dev’s arm over his shoulder and getting him to his feet.

“I’d say you rather fit right in,” he says. “Come along, let’s get you to a bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super long chapter to make up for the cliffhanger trauma, haha.


	21. Devabhaktuni, Kiran. 08/03, #00, REP:11/09 LOC:WM

The table is set for tea and even though it has been less than twenty four hours since the encounter with Zsasz, even though his head and wrists sting, Dev picks up a cup and saucer and his hands do not shake.

He sips the steaming Earl Grey and Damian sits beside him squeezing a wedge of lemon over his own steaming tea. There are brown sugar cubes on the table and Damian drops two into his cup after the lemon. Dev takes two and pops them straight into his mouth.

Alfie sits across from them with his legs crossed and his own saucer balanced on one knee as he looks over a green ledger.

“Master Jason complained of some slight numbness in his left arm,” he says while jotting down something in the book with a silver ballpoint pen. “He woke for a bit while you were sleeping.”

Dev is completely aware that his hair is sticking up all over, still stiff and askew from being pressed into a soft pillow. He doesn’t bloody care.

“He’ll need a bit of therapy,” he says quietly. “There was some muscle damage.”

“Understood,” Alfie says, nodding. “I will let him know.”

“If you don’t mind,” Dev says, “I’d rather tell him myself.”

“Perfectly alright,” Alfie says, clapping the ledger shut. He exchanges it for his tea.

The things on the table rattle with sudden force and when Dev and Damian look up from their tea, Superman is standing right next to them, his cape still billowing out behind him.

Alfie does not even look up.

“Hello, Master Kent,” he says.

“I’ve just heard,” Superman says. “How is he? Where’s Bruce? I was off-world all week. The damn three plus protocol failed to deploy.”

“Master Jason is alive and mending,” Alfie answers. “I believe Master Bruce is working in the garage. He left instructions that he is not to be disturbed.”

“Like hell he did,” Superman exclaims.

“Clark,” Alfie says sharply.

“What?” Superman returns equally sharply. “Dev says ‘fuck’ and ‘bloody’ any time he damn well pleases and I’ve never once heard you ‘ _Kiran_ ’ at him.”

Damian is trying very hard not to snicker.

Alfie bites his lip and looks at Dev, who grins and shrugs.

“Some of us must maintain our innocence,” Alfie finally says, while Superman hovers. “But with Master Jason at home for a while a swear jar might be in order. Again. But it isn’t like you to be petty, Master Kent.”

“Bollocks,” Dev says under his breath and Alfie gives him a look. “I’ll start it,” he mutters, patting his pockets for a wallet that isn’t there, because he’s wearing someone else’s pyjama trousers. “Later.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, Alfred,” Superman says, sounding very much like a mild reporter. “I’m just…shoot, that protocol was there for a _reason_.”

“It’s perfectly alright,” Alfie says. “Care for a cup of Earl Grey?”

“Why not?” Superman asks, still hovering. He accepts the cup and saucer and drinks the tea black and hot, in long sips infused with nervous energy. “Thanks.”

Dev reaches up to take the cup and saucer back, figuring he has the longest arms and Alfie won’t have to stand again.

Instead of the cup, there are firm fingers wrapped around his forearm.

“What happened to your wrists?” Superman asks, voice full of concern.

“Bloody Zsasz,” Dev says.

Superman all but slams the cup and saucer down and says,

“Sorry,” hurriedly to Dev, and then, “Sorry, Alfred. I’m making myself the exception to the do not disturb order.”

And then he’s gone in a blur, the cups and teapot rattling again in his wake.

“He’s like that when he’s worried,” Damian says calmly.

“Some of us would know from personal experience,” Alfred returns and some of the arrogant lift of Damian’s shoulders dissipates. “What is the three plus protocol?”

“Grayson’s doing,” Damian says sulkily. “Despite my well-reasoned protests. The Watchtower is due to receive an alert any time three or more high-priority villains escape from Arkham in the same forty-eight hours. An available meta-human from a list ranked by preference would be deployed to offer assistance. I believe Father may have disabled it.”

“That stubborn ass,” Alfie says, putting a dollar on the table. “If he did, I hope Master Clark thoroughly scolds him, and then I shall.”

He picks up the green ledger again and writes a bit in it.

“What now? Are those super secrets, then?” Dev says, pouring more tea and trying to peer over. His wrists ache and he only pours half a cup. Alfie snaps the ledger shut and leans forward, finishes pouring.

“Grocery lists,” Alfie replies archly. “And menu plans.”

“Hmm,” Dev grumbles. “Keep your bloody secrets.”

“Kiran is up to three dollars,” Damian says. “I am also assuming it is an even dollar regardless of word. Grayson claims you used to employ a complicated chart.”

“The math forced him to clean up his language faster than the money did,” Alfred says. “But I rather have the sense that you and Kiran would enjoy it. And aside from that, he is Dev or Dr. Dev to you.”

“And fuck you, you little wanker,” Dev says, ignoring Alfie’s glare. “I’ll manage my own sodding tab, thanks.”

Alfie flips the ledger back open.

“I’m at six,” Dev says quietly and Alfie nods. “And you bloody know I’m not even going to bloody try. It’s in my sodding DNA.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Alfie says. “Nine.”

“Bollocks,” Dev says reflexively, and then more loudly, “ _Bollocks!_ ”

There’s a long pause and he whispers under his breath, “Sod it all, bloody hell.”

It might be the first time he has ever seen Damian grin.

Alfie is jotting things down in the ledger again and Dev leans once more to see the pen end with a flourish on _roma tomatoes_ and he feels a bit disappointed.

Wayne and Kent, who has somehow already changed into normal clothes, go through the room toward the Cave both yelling at each other.

“I don’t know anything about a damn protocol,” Wayne is saying. “And I certainly didn’t disable anything without telling you.”

“Well, you didn’t let J’onn know, either! Someone _else_ could have come to help!”

“We had Dev!” Wayne shouts back as the elevator door closes.

Dev feels ridiculously warm inside and it isn’t the tea, which he is on his third cup of. Unfortunately, neither the tea nor the warmth are doing anything for his head, which is well aching.

“How’s your head?” Alfie asks.

Dev blinks.

“Are you a blo-” under the table, Damian kicks him in the shin. He glowers down at the lad.

“Dr. Devabhaktuni,” he says with a slight nod. “Go on.”

“Are you a mind reader,” Dev says to Alfie, his eyes closed. “Yes, my head sodding hurts.”

Damian doesn’t try to kick him this time.

Alfred gets up and comes back with a bottle of medicine.

Dev takes the bottle and reads it over, then hands it back unopened.

“I’ve a surgery in the morning. I can’t take anything stronger than ibuprofen.”

“A surgery you will be calling off,” Alfie says levelly. “Kiran?”

“I can’t, Alfie,” Dev shrugs. “I’ll be alright if I go home to kip early enough tonight. It’s a mum with two kids and it’s malignant. I promised her this week it would be me. And I’m already deep in shite for taking off while I was scheduled, even if I wasn’t needed.”

“Very well,” Alfie says, swapping the medicine bottle for ibuprofen. “What will you say about your wrists, should someone ask?”

“No one will ask,” Dev says, looking away from Alfie and to his third cuppa. “I might be out of practice hiding things, but I’ve not forgotten how.”

As soon as he says it, his good sense hampered by his pounding skulls and throbbing wrists, he expects Alfie to reprimand him for saying it in front of Damian.

But there’s just a hand on his shoulder when his head is bent down.

“Events like this are known to dredge up things,” Alfie says quietly. “You know where to find me if you need to talk.”

“Mm,” Dev nods once, rubbing with his toe at an imaginary spot under the table.

“He didn’t disable it,” Kent announces as the elevator door slides open again.

“Clark,” Wayne says, “I’ve only said it three times now.”

“It was a satellite down for maintenance. It got stuck there. Damn satellite.”

They approach the tea table and Kent adds a dollar to Alfred’s.

“Do we have a new swear jar?” Wayne asks, raising an eyebrow. He pulls out his wallet and thumbs through it. He drops a hundred on the table. “Tell me when Dev’s run out his tab.”

“Oi!” Dev shouts and then groans a little. He puts a hand to the back of his head. “I can manage my own bloody tab,” he says, feeling like he’s repeating himself.

“No, you can’t,” Wayne says. “And Alfred knows he’ll never catch Jason. He hates to waste money and has a whole lexicon of nonsensical euphemisms he won’t hesitate to use.”

“Frak,” Dev says. “Gorram frell jagweed.”

“At least one of those things is from Dickens,” Damian says suspiciously.

“And only a little cloff-plunker like you would know that,” Dev says, and he has the satisfaction of seeing Alfie pretend not to be snorting into his tea. “Because literally any other human on the _planet_ would know it from the telly first.”

“Father wouldn’t,” Damian says, turning to him for support.

Wayne gives him a falsely sad frown.

“I know it from both. I watched it with Jay last year. Always do your research, son.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Damian,” Clark says charitably, “I have no idea either.”

“Tt,” Damian says.

“Bloody hell!” Dev is so surprised he can’t censor himself. “ _You’ve_ not seen the show that is _literally_ about _space cowboys_?”

“…but I will soon,” Clark says slowly to Damian, “if you want to keep me company.”

“Tt,” Damian says again.

“You might as well make some plans,” Wayne says. “As soon as Jason’s well enough the two of you are going to the Kent farm for a while.”

Dev expects Damian to protest this, angrily, but he just mumbles instead and seems a little pleased.

“Who’s with Jay?” Wayne asks. “I’m going up to relieve them. Feel up to coming with me, Dev?”

“I ought,” Dev says, finishing his tea and standing. “Thanks again, Alfie.”

They go up together, stopping by the study so Wayne can pluck a book off a shelf.

Dev wakes Jason when they get to the room and they swear at each other a bit while Dev takes his temperature and blood pressure and checks all the sutures. They’re both exhausted by the time Dev switches out the last bandage for fresh gauze and tape. He adjusts the drip on the painkiller without asking and leaves Wayne with him, with instructions.

Timothy is waiting in the hall with a mobile.

“Bruce had me port your old phone over,” he says, offering it. “I just restarted it so it should be working. How are you doing?”

“How do I look?” Dev asks.

“Wait in my bathroom,” Timothy says. “I’ll be right there.”

Dev sits down in the bathroom down the hall in Timothy’s room and leans against the wall. Timothy comes in only a minute behind him with a roll of gauze bandage and burn cream.

Timothy sits down cross-legged across from Dev and Dev holds out his wrists.

“Have these not been changed since yesterday?” Timothy asks, grimacing at the bloodied edges. “Dev.”

“I was sleeping!” Dev protests. “And then having a cuppa.”

“You’re as bad as Bruce,” Timothy says, for not the first time. “Maybe it’s just being old. Come shout at me if I get stupid and reckless when I’m old.”

“Are you not already?” Dev asks and Timothy doesn’t answer.

He peels the bandages off, tugging gently where they stick, and Dev looks over the wounds. There are black, jagged lines across his wrists and smaller lines that cross them on the back. It’s all edged with pink and white and smears of dried blood.

“That was a bloody neat little flame-thrower,” Dev says, swallowing his edge of horror.

“C’mon,” Timothy says. “Let’s run water over them at the sink.”

Timothy watches him carefully, asking questions like he’s a doctor himself.

“Do you have a fever? Is it really tender? How’s the feeling in your fingers? Your palms? Is your head sore? On a 1-10 scale?”

Dev finally, irritably, snaps, “Oh, sod off, Timothy.”

Timothy is undaunted.

“So, that’s like a seven then?”

Dev has to get himself out of there. His wrists are absolutely numb across the blackened lines but the flesh and muscle all around them feel like they’re waking up, and he thought it had hurt before. Now it stings and aches like hell and when he prods at it experimentally there is actually a dead area across the backs of his hands that he cannot feel when he flexes. His middle finger on the left hand seems sluggish to him, and he can’t remember if he should be able to independently move the top joint of ring finger because right now he cannot.

“Are you taking notes?” Dev asks Timothy, when he feels the boy’s eyes on him still.

“Yes,” Timothy says, and Dev doesn’t know if he’s joking or not.

“Bloody wrap them already,” Dev instructs, turning off the water. Did metal always feel that way to his fingertips? Maybe he _should_ call off the surgery tomorrow, promises be damned. But no, he’ll be fine.

Timothy wraps Dev’s wrists, quiet now and casting concerned glances at Dev’s face that Dev pointedly ignores, while focusing on breathing evenly.

As soon as it’s done, Dev says,

“Much thanks, Timothy. I’ve reports to write up and some lab tests I can’t neglect or they’ll be ruined,” he leaves the bathroom.

“Dev,” Timothy calls after him. “Dev, I’ll come. Keep you company for the afternoon.”

“Sod off,” Dev says and he hopes he sounds casual but thinks he’s probably erring on the side of rather fierce. “Get some rest.”

Alfred, Kent, and Damian are still sitting around the small tea table when he goes by to the elevator. He doesn’t look at any of them but when Alfred addresses him, he says, “I’ll leave instructions for Jason’s care while I’m at hospital tomorrow. Page me for emergencies.”

The elevator door closes and he slumps against the wall, finally out of sight. His hands are shaking and cannot seem to stop them. No, his shoulders are shaking, and it’s sending cords of pain up and down his arms and through his chest as it rattles his wrists. He was fine, he’d been perfectly fine all morning.

Downstairs in the Cave, he gives up on the pretense of working at the computer-- the main one or the one in the medical unit-- and instead curls up on the gurney. The antiseptic smell and bleached linens are like a kind of home, faintly reassuring. He breathes in it but smells burnt flesh instead.

When the elevator door opens again, he doesn’t know how long it’s been but he cannot sit up to see who it is. Even his teeth are chattering now and his back is to the elevator, so opening his eyes would be useless. He only has the energy to think, _bloody hell please do not be timothy_.

“Dev,” Wayne says, from right next to his face. “Is it your head? Do we need to go to the clinic?”

Dev had forgotten that his head hurt. It’s probably not helping anything. He’d made sure Alfred looked him over before he slept and he’s reasonably certain it’s not more than mild concussion.

“No,” Dev says, keeping his eyes closed. “I’m fine.”

It would be a spot more convincing if his voice didn’t shake as badly as the rest of him.

“Look at me,” Wayne says. “I believe you but I need to make sure.”

Dev tries to take slower, deeper breaths but fails. He gives up and opens his eyes anyway, allows Wayne to check his pupils without really seeing him or anything in the Cave.

The penlight clicks off and Wayne sits down next to the gurney.

“Do you want me to sedate you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Dev says. He wants it _very_ much but he’s still not certain he’s cancelling surgery in the morning. That woman doesn’t need to let the thing rot in her brain a second longer than necessary.

“Clark was right,” Wayne says. “I should never have called you out in the field. I’m sorry.”

“Go to fucking hell,” Dev manages, clamping his jaw down for a moment after. “He would have died. You needed me out there.”

Wayne says nothing to that.

“My temporary psychological distress is well worth it,” Dev insists, wishing he could get himself under some semblance of control. He does not mention his hands.

Wayne is picking up his left hand anyway.

“It’s not swollen,” he says. “That’s good.”

“I bloody well know that,” Dev tries to snap, but it comes out rattling. “I sodding looked.”

Wayne’s fingers are pressing hard against the back of his hand and he sucks in a gasping breath.

“Ow. Fucking leave off.”

“Your muscles are seizing,” Wayne says. “Probably in reaction to the burns.”

Wayne is massaging the muscles in Dev’s left hand now and he didn’t know anything could hurt so bloody badly. But it’s only a second later and the pain is fading, leaving just the dull ache in his wrists.

The trembling along his shoulder and arm fades and Wayne picks up his other hand. This time, Dev is mentally braced for it.

“I used cold water,” Dev says after a moment, realizing as his head clears a bit. “Like I’m sodding mental.”

“You’re right,” Wayne says quietly. “Jay would have died.”

“Bloody hell, I’m right,” Dev says, managing now to sound a bit savage. “Don’t ever fucking tell me you oughtn’t have rung. I chose this and I’d choose it again.”

He sits up, rubbing his own hands now and feeling a bit steadier. He and Wayne glare at each other for a moment and then he sighs and looks down at his hands.

“Thanks, mate. My hands are…”

“I know,” Wayne says. “I understand.”

Dev’s heart is pounding even harder now, instead of slowing like he expected. He needs to walk it off, expend some energy, so he slides off the gurney and his legs give out as soon as his feet hit the floor.

Wayne stands and catches him in the same motion.

“Shite,” Dev mutters, one hand on Wayne’s shoulder to hold himself up, “bloody fucking hell. It’s my wrists, that’s all.”

“And your head,” Wayne says, helping him back onto the gurney.

Even though it’s been aching, he feels like he keeps forgetting his head. He’s shaking again.

“I think you need to cancel that surgery,” Wayne says firmly.

“She’s a mum,” Dev answers, already knowing Wayne is right. “And it shouldn’t bloody wait.”

“You need a break. And not because of your hands. Alfred is worried and I think he’s right to be.”

“One surgery. That’s all. Then I’m clear for a week,” Dev says. “I’ll take a break then.”

“Who else could do it? Anywhere?” Wayne asks, changing tack.

Dev barely has to think about this. There was a competitive bloke in his final year of residency that he’d hated but kept in touch with professionally out of a grudging respect.

“George Bixenby,” he says. “He’s in Seattle now. He’d take it if I asked. But that’s a lot for the family.”

“You’re going to ask,” Wayne says. “And I will fly her and her family tonight. They won’t pay a dime.”

“If she agrees,” Dev relents, not willing to admit how much of a weight this is off of him. Just acknowledging that he won’t be doing surgery in the morning pulls out all his last mental and physical stopgaps and he is most definitely shaking again.

“She’ll agree,” Wayne says. “And now, do you want me to sedate you?”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Dev protests. “I’ve slept the day already. And I’ll need to ring Bixenby.”

“Damn, but you are stubborn,” Wayne exhales.

“It’s bloody frustrating, isn’t it?” Dev returns, giving him a look he hopes is reminiscent of one of Alfred’s pointed scowls. It would probably be more effective if his teeth weren’t chattering again.

“Cor, give me a minute and bloody hell,” Dev frowns, “my brain is fine. Why is it so fucking hard to get control of myself.”

“Frustrating, isn’t it?” Wayne asks mildly.

“Would you let me give _you_ a bloody sedative?” Dev demands, trying again to still his rebellious limbs.

“No,” Wayne says. “But you’d insist anyway.”

“Bloody hell, I would,” Dev says. He can feel tightness creeping back into his hands so he stops trying.

“We’re different men, Dev,” Wayne says. “I’ve had practice with injuries and men like Zsasz. You haven’t, not like this. I hope to God you never get there. Your skills outstrip mine in others ways. Now will you stop being so damn stubborn?”

It’s his hands, again, that do him in.

“Fucking bloody hell,” Dev says. “I’ve well run out my tab with Alfie already. Fine. Sodding drug me.”

“Alright,” Wayne says, standing and opening a drawer along the counter. “I’ll do half a dose. And I’ll get you to the den if you want. Tim is already up there playing something. I think he’s waiting for you.”

“Quarter,” Dev says.

“Half,” Wayne replies, filling the syringe.

“Bloody hell,” Dev says. “Fine.”

Twenty minutes later, he’s on the couch in the den no longer shaking and watching Timothy solve some sort of puzzle on the telly. When he’s positive Wayne is out of earshot, he says,

“Your da is well brilliant.”

Timothy looks away from the puzzle to grin.

“Yeah, he kind of is.”


	22. bloody hell these aren't even lab reports anymore. 17 nov. wayne manor, w/mate tim.

“You have to come,” Timothy says, pausing the round of MarioKart 8 they’re on. “Have. To.”

And because Dev’s defenses are down and because he feels Timothy needs to just hear a _yes_ and because he is a bloody pushover sometimes, he nearly agrees on the spot.

“I’m scheduled to work Thanksgiving,” he says as a final defense. A very valid one, since agreeing to work the holiday is one of the few things keeping him out of boiling hot water with a quite miffed Tony Fabriello. Dev can’t even blame him for once. And it is a small sacrifice, since Dev isn’t especially invested in the American holiday anyway.

“But you have Tuesday off,” Timothy replies. “I checked the hospital schedule. You work overnight but could be at the airport at seven. That’s plenty of time.”

“I feel like you’re not the sort of bloke to whom I’d need to point out the futility of going to a Thursday holiday on a Tuesday.”

“Oh, but it’s _not_ a Thursday holiday,” Timothy says with a devious grin, resuming the game while Dev is caught off-guard. “Thanksgiving is busy for us, too, so Martha Kent is having dinner on Tuesday.”

“Bollocks, Timothy,” Dev mutters, both at this news and the fact that he’s fallen to twelfth place in just a few seconds. And his wrists ache, deep down inside. “You’ve already booked a ticket, haven’t you?”

“Yesterday,” Timothy says, crossing the finish line in first. “We’re going the night before so you have to _promise_ you’ll come. I won’t be there to make you.”

“I feel like it’s rather an imposition,” Dev says, choosing another course.

“Because all the rest of us are so closely related,” Timothy says, rolling his eyes. “Dev! I _hate_ Cheep Cheep Beach.”

“I know,” Dev says. “And you know what I meant.”

“Clark said, ‘ _Make sure you invite Dev._ I was standing right next to Bruce when he said it. I think his mom wants to meet you or something.”

“What?” Dev exclaims. “Why? Why the bloody hell would she even know who I am?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Timothy shrugs. “I have a spiny shell, by the way, so eat dust. Maybe because Clark likes you? Maybe because Jason and Damian have already been there for a week and _they_ like you?”

“Damian doesn’t sodding like me,” Dev protests as his on-screen character flies into the air. “Damian _tolerates_ me.”

“Damian tolerates _me_ ,” Timothy answers. “He practically worships you. Haven’t you noticed he’s always trying to join you and Alfred for tea?”

“I’d noticed but I’d rather thought it was a territorial thing; I’ve been encroaching on his granddad and whatnot. All he does is sit and scowl at his tea.”

“Scowling is how Damian says I love you. If he doesn’t like you, you don’t see him coming. He’s like a velociraptor,” Timothy turns to Dev with his own scowl when his character shrinks to a fourth of its size and spins helplessly.

Dev drives over him and crushes him.

“‘Clever girl,’” Dev says. “You know, I saw that film at uni?”

“What? _Jurassic Park_?”

“You’ve a Blooper coming up, mate, take the water path,” Dev says, jamming a button. “Yeah. Blew my bloody mind. I’m still right terrified of dinosaurs. The T-Rex downstairs makes me bloody nervous.”

“Really?” Timothy pauses the game again to look at him. “All the things we deal with and it’s the inanimate statue that bothers you?”

“Phobias don’t need to be rational,” Dev grumbles. “Stop pausing the bloody game; I’m in the lead.”

“No, you aren’t,” Timothy says, resuming with a press of a button. “I’ve got another spiny shell.”

“Bollocks!” Dev throws the controller down as his character spirals and falls into sixth place. “I bloody hate 150cc. Why did we pick this game?”

“You wanted something relaxing,” Timothy says dryly. “So, you’ll come to the Kents?”

“I’ll come,” Dev says. “But I won’t be comfortable for a second.”

“You’re only saying that because you haven’t met Clark’s parents,” Timothy counters. “I don’t think it’s possible to be uncomfortable around them for long. Unless you’re evil, I guess.”

“I’ve told you, I’m a sadist,” Dev says. “It will be right miserable for everyone but at least I’ll have you to blame.”

“Thanks,” Timothy says. “Just trying to be _nice_ but you’re an ass. Wanna go another round?”

“Why not?” Dev replies. “I’ve sodding resigned myself to a life of losing battles to you. Why not races, too?”

“Well, that’s just defeatist,” Timothy says. “And now I feel bad.”

“Making you feel rot is what I am best at,” Dev grins. “Perhaps someday your skill will equal mine.”

“Discouraging friends, plus 15 experience points,” Timothy mutters. “Add dark side credit, neutral status compromised.”

“If you were a Jedi,” Dev asks, musing now, “what color lightsaber would you have?”

“Hm,” Timothy thinks, while tapping a button down. “Red has obvious negative implications, so, green? _You’d_ have red.”

“Thanks, mate, but I’d have yellow.”

“Why yellow?”

“The color of scholars and healers,” Dev answers, sliding around a turn into first place.

“Dev, that’s like, not even movie canon. I’m not even sure it’s book canon.”

“To be honest, mate, I’ve not even seen the bloody movies. All my knowledge is secondhand, through games.”

“KIRAN SIDNEY,” Timothy shouts. He turns the console off mid-race. “We are watching them _right now_.”

“What, all of them? Aren’t there nine?”

Timothy glowers at him.

“I thought you were educated.”

“He is,” Stephanie says, coming into the den hauling a heavy book bag. She drops it to the floor and flings herself on the couch between them. “Which is why he’s _not_ watching a movie with you, but is going to help me with my organic chemistry homework before I flunk my final.”

“I offered to help you with your chem homework,” Timothy says, sounding annoyed.

“Yeah, but you don’t know how to dumb it down for me. Dev does.”

“Thanks,” Dev chuckles. “Let’s see it then.”

Timothy is grousing while he turns on the PS4.

“I’m starting this anyway, in protest,” he says.

Stephanie pulls a thick textbook and a notebook onto her lap and cracks the textbook open.

“The final is in three weeks,” she says. “And covers fifteen chapters and I’m already dead.”

“Do you’ve notes? Outlines?” Dev flips through the pages. “Shite, this brings back memories.”

“Speaking of memories, how are your wrists?” Stephanie asks. Dev glances at her and Timothy turns his whole body to stare. She shrugs.

“Smooth, Steph. Grade A transition,” Timothy mumbles.

“What?” she demands of Timothy. “You weren’t going to ask him!”

“I _was_!” Timothy says. “I was building up to it!”

“It’s just a question and a medically sound one,” Dev tells them both, a little amused. “Timothy, mate, you don’t have to dance around it. I’m fine.”

He’s actually not thinking about his wrists at all. He’s looking at the organic chemistry diagram and wondering how the bloody hell Thom is doing. They’d gone to a concert together because of homework like this; they’d ended up flatmates for two years because of it.

Dev wishes he wasn’t such shite at staying in touch with people.

“…and she said ‘all you need to remember, Miss Brown, is that if you don’t study, you’ll be in all kinds of trouble’ but I think she was mocking me? And now I have no idea what to focus on.”

He realizes Stephanie has been complaining about a professor and Timothy is laughing.

“Alkynes,” he giggles. “It’s alkynes, Steph. Not all kinds.”

“Well, aren’t you a helpful cupcake,” she snaps. “See, this is why I wanted Dev to help. You forget how stupid you make me feel.”

“I don’t make you feel stupid?” Dev asks, flipping through pages again.

“No, you _remember_ that you do and it makes you nicer.”

Timothy grumbles. Dev isn’t sure how he feels about this news.

“Where’s your syllabus?” Dev asks. “They do still give those? Bollocks, I feel old.”

“It’s in my email,” Stephanie says, pulling out her phone. “Hold on.”

Timothy is standing in front of the telly while the opening credits roll.

“I don’t expect you to follow all of this,” he says to Dev, “but you can help her _and_ get the gist of it.”

“Timothy, I’m not daft, I know the plot of Star Wars. I just haven’t watched it in one go.”

“What do I do,” Steph asks, shoving Dev’s arm gently and handing him the phone. “Tell me. I cannot flunk this class. I bombed the midterm.”

“Have you memorized the reactions both ways?” Dev asks, looking over the syllabus.

“Is that what my flashcards have?”

“No,” Timothy says without turning. “It is _not_ what your flashcards have and I tried to tell you that weeks ago.”

“Memorize them,” Dev says, handing the phone back. “All of them.”

“Ugh,” Stephanie throws herself sideways on the couch. “I’m just going to drop it. I can’t handle this.”

“Index cards,” Dev says sternly. “I’ll drill you.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Stephanie says again, sitting to pull stuff out of her book bag. “And thank you.”

Within a minute, she has one side of the couch covered with a spread of textbook, notes, index cards, highlighters, and pens. She’s copying from a chart in one chapter while the movie plays.

Timothy turns and sees the cluttered couch, where he was sitting just minutes before, and he sighs.

“Want my spot, mate?” Dev offers. Timothy shakes his head and curls up on an overstuffed chair near the couch.

“I’m going for snacks,” Stephanie announces. “I can’t think like this. Anyone want anything?”

“Coffee,” Timothy says without hesitation.

“If you know where Alfie keeps the wine gums, I will be forever in your debt,” Dev says.

As soon as Stephanie is gone, Timothy takes her vacated seat on the couch and says quietly,

“I was going to ask you about your wrists. And how you’re doing.”

“I know,” Dev says, stretching his legs out on the coffee table and leaning back. He crosses his arms and closes his eyes.

“So…how are you doing?”

Dev takes a deep breath and stock of himself at the same time. He’s been avoiding it and facing it by turns, depending on his energy reserves.

“I’m alright,” he says, looking Timothy full in the face. “My wrists are bloody sore. And I know I’m an arse rather often, but I’m not bothered that you ask. I’ve talked to your da, again, and Alfie. I’m sleeping when I can and on the mend.”

Timothy matches his gaze for a moment and then seems satisfied. He nods.

“Okay,” he says.

“How are you, mate?” Dev returns, studying the boy’s hunched forward posture and clasped hands.

“I’m…managing,” Timothy says slowly. “It’s easier not being alone. It’ll get better, though. It always does.”

Dev reaches out and tugs on the boy’s tense shoulder. Tim leans back next to him on the couch and props his feet up on the coffee table. The movie is still playing.

“Talk to me if you need to, yeah?” Dev says.

“I will, thanks,” Timothy says, his head on Dev’s shoulder.

Stephanie returns few minutes later with a mug of coffee, a bag of tortilla chips, and a package of wine gums she throws at Dev’s chest. She doesn’t say anything to Tim but moves her stuff to the other end of the coffee table and sits on the floor to write.

“Which one is Spock?” Dev asks, nodding to the telly and popping a gummi into his mouth.

“The metal one,” Timothy answers without missing a beat. “You can tell because he doesn’t understand emotions.”


	23. w/14 other people o.O bloody massive quantities of food. 22 nov. kent farm

It is a little after noon when Dev parks the rental car alongside the row of other cars in the gravel drive. He sits for a moment, decompressing after the rush of travel. His night shift had turned into emergency surgery sometime around one in the morning and hadn’t gotten out of the OR until a little after six.

The surgery had gone as well as could be expected for the extent of the injuries involved, but his flight was scheduled to take off at seven and so, thinking mostly of Timothy, he had booked it to the airport still in all the day’s old clothes sans only his surgical gown.

He had made it to the boarding gate at ten after seven expecting the plane to be gone, but had stumbled onto a bit of unusual luck-- it had been delayed and was still there, with a new departure time of 7:30.

So he’d dozed on the plane all the way to Wichita, changed out of sweat-and-hospital wrinkled trousers and shirt in an airport bathroom, and now is here, in the Kent driveway that he had harbored brief doubts about being able to find.

With a deep breath, he throws himself into action and swings the car door open and steps out onto the gravel. There are shouts and laughter from around the side of the house and the air is unseasonably warm, almost too warm for the sweater he has on.

He glances at the front porch and considers it, then goes in search of the noise instead. Around the back of the house, Alfie is sitting with a gray-haired woman on a low back deck, and in the field across from the house there’s a game of American football underway.

“Kiran!” Alfie says when he sees him, a warm smile on the older man’s face. “We’d begun to worry you wouldn’t make it.”

“Bloody flight was delayed,” Dev says with a small shrug, his hands in his pockets. “It’s well that it was; I’d a surgery and nearly missed it.”

“This is Martha Kent,” Alfie says, and the woman who has turned to see him nods with a smile of her own. “Martha, this is–”

“Dr. Devabhaktuni,” she says.

Dev climbs the two steps onto the deck and offers his hand, which she shakes, her grip chilled but firm.

“Dev,” he says in reply. “Or Kiran. Or Sidney. I don’t even sodding know anymore.

“Sidney is nice,” she says, “but I only made Clark say your name for me about a dozen times so I could practice. I had to get it in there at least once.”

“I’ll go check the turkey, if you don’t mind,” Alfie says, standing and stepping into the house.

Dev takes a seat around the glass table and turns a bit in his chair to watch the football game.

“Do you want to join them?” Martha offers.

“Bloody hell, no,” Dev exclaims, watching as Timothy and Dick tackle a boy he doesn’t recognize. “I’d be broken to pieces.”

The field is full of familiar faces, absent Jason, and four he doesn’t recognize.

“That’s Jonathan,” Martha says, pointing to an older man standing off a bit to the side of the game. “He’s supposed to be referee but I don’t think he’s doing his job.”

“Do you know where Jason might be?” he asks, his eyes still on the field. “I ought to check him over.”

“I figured you’d be one of those types,” she says, and when he looks at her, her sharp blue eyes are twinkling.

“What types?” he asks suspiciously.

“Oh,” she says lightly, “like Clark and Bruce. The type that can’t stop working.”

“I’ll have you know, Mrs. Kent, that I am well capable of taking a break. But this sodding family makes it near impossible,” Dev says and he feels like he’s talking too much, saying idiotic things.

But Martha laughs.

“Please, just call me Martha. And that doesn’t surprise me in the least. Jason’s inside, reading, I think.”

Alfie returns to the deck with a steaming mug of tea and hands it to Dev, who accepts it gratefully. He’s still bewildered by the older man’s ability to anticipate need or want and supply it from what’s at hand.

Dev sips the tea and returns his attention to the game. Wayne is carrying the football and goes down hard when Kent tackles him. He climbs to his feet, laughing, and tosses the ball to Stephanie. There’s scrambling as people move about to begin again.

“I still don’t understand this game,” Dev says, setting his tea down and watching with a frown.

“Is something the matter, Kiran?” Alfie asks after a moment and Dev realizes he’s been tapping his foot on the deck and has his arms tightly crossed over his chest.

“Eh,” he says, stilling his foot and forcing himself to uncross his arms. He picks up the tea without taking his attention away from the game. “It’s making me bloody nervous that he’s not got a helmet.”

Martha stands and leans forward on the railing, cupping her hands around her mouth to shout.

“Jon!”

The older man turns and waves.

“I think we need that oak table from the barn after all!”

“I told you we did!” he shouts back. “I’ve been saying it all damn morning!”

“Send the boys!” she yells. “I need to clean it up before dinner!”

The game has stalled and Dev feels a little awful, but there’s a knot of tension in his gut that’s fading now, set there by the memory of the size and shape of a craniotomy hole in Bruce Wayne’s skull. And in that moment, he decides he adores Martha Kent. Unfortunately, it makes him nervous in an entirely new way.

He sips his tea.

The game’s dissolution results in little knots of people around the field. Jonathan Kent is talking, pointing to a barn in the distance, and Clark and Bruce tramp off through the field together toward it, talking. Damian trails them, an older dog leaving Jonathan’s side to join them at Damian’s own heels.

“We should have done this years ago,” Martha says to Alfie as she sits back down.

“Indeed,” he agrees, but slowly. “Though, I’m not certain previous years would have been as conducive.”

“True,” she nods. “A time for all things, I suppose. No point in rushing ‘em or wishing for different circumstances.”

Dev is quiet, enjoying the tea, the weather, the conversation he’s on the edge of. It makes him feel slightly better, realizing that this must be a new occurrence and that he is not invading an old and established tradition.

“Dev!” Timothy has spotted him and jogs from the field with the other boy at his side. They come all the way up to the deck railing and both of them spring over it instead of going around to the stairs.

“Timothy Wayne,” Dev says, a grin on his face. He can’t help it. It’s brilliant to see the boy look so happy.

“Hey,” Timothy says, gesturing to the boy at his side. Dev realizes with a start how much the boy looks like Clark. “This is Kon. Kon, this is Dev.”

Dev puts the tea down and stands to shake the other boy’s hand.

“So this is the doctor I’ve heard so much about,” Kon says.

“Bloody hell, Timothy,” Dev says, “stop whinging about me to your mates.”

“Oh, Tim doesn’t whinge,” Kon says seriously, with a slight smile. “He whines.”

“You are both the worst,” Timothy says, “and I’m going to get coffee before I pass out.”

Timothy turns to go into the house and Kon follows him, already talking about something else. Tim laughs as the door closes behind them.

Dev looks out over the field again.

Clark and Bruce are returning from the barn, Clark with a long oak table held over his head and Bruce with Damian sitting on his shoulders.

“Ma!” Clark shouts as they reach the edge of the field. “Where am I putting this?”

Dick, Stephanie, Cass, and a girl Dev realizes is probably Supergirl, are sitting cross legged in a circle in the field doing something with long strands of grass. Jonathan and a woman are talking but she breaks away from their conversation to join Clark and Bruce.

She joins Clark under the table and puts one hand up like she’s balancing it.

“Hurry, Martha,” she calls. “I can’t hold it much longer.”

“Living room,” Martha says to Clark. “I’ll go move your Pa’s chair.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s something I can help with,” Dev says, eager to do something other than just standing around.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Martha answers. “You stay here and finish your tea.”

Dev isn’t certain enough of his place in the situation to insist, so he doesn’t. He sits back down.

The woman under the table climbs onto the deck when Bruce and Clark continue around the side of the house, calling, “Dev!” and “Hey, there!” as they pass.

“You’re Dev,” the woman says, leaning on the deck railing. “I’m Lois Lane, Clark’s wife.”

“I’m Dev,” he confirms, taking a sip of his tea. He realizes he’s been holding it, using it like a shield. Something to clutch, to hide himself behind.

“Clark tells me you’re–”

“Lois Lane!” Martha says from inside the house. “You leave that poor man alone!”

“What? What did I say?” Lois says, scowling toward the door and striding away from the railing. She goes inside, letting the screen door slam behind her, still protesting, “I was being _nice_!”

Dev can’t hear Martha’s answer.

He sips his tea. It’s nearly gone.

“Did you have a pleasant trip?” Alfie asks, now that it’s just the two of them on the deck.

“Eh,” Dev says, pushing the sleeves of his sweater up. It is far too warm for November. “I slept the plane ride. Or something bloody close to sleep. The drive was pleasant enough.”

“It’s lovely country,” Alfie agrees amiably. “I’m rather pleased you could make it.”

“It’s all Tim’s bloody fault,” Dev says casually. “I was all but forced.”

“You’re nervous,” Alfie says quietly. “Don’t be. Enjoy yourself a bit, Kiran. When was the last time you had a holiday with someone?”

Dev looks down at the dredges of his tea, a bit of leaf floating in the bottom of the mug.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I bloody well can’t remember. I was thinking about it on the drive, actually. I usually work.”

“You’re in rather good company,” Alfie says, offering to take the empty mug. “We’ll all sort this one out as we go, then. We’re not quite in practice ourselves.”

Dev stands and stretches, his limbs still stiff after the morning’s trip.

“Alfie,” he says, when the older man is at the door. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, my boy,” Alfie says, opening the door and motioning him in. “We’re glad to have you.”

Dev goes in ahead of the older man and takes in the house as he stops just inside to take his shoes off. The whole house smells of yeast rolls and cinnamon and the floorboards under his socked feet are worn and smooth.

Clark and Bruce are angling the table under Martha’s directions, to make one long table from the dining room into the living room with other furniture shoved out of the way.

There’s a set of stairs with a partial balustrade leading up to where the staircase is obscured by the surrounding ceiling, and Jason is five steps up, sitting legs akimbo, engrossed in a book but displaced by the rearrangement of the living room.

“Zombie Boy,” Dev says, leaning against the balustrade.

Jason doesn’t look up from the book.

“Doctor Frankenstein,” he says calmly.

“I want a look at your arms before I’m off tonight,” Dev tells him. “Skype isn’t quite enough. How’s your range of motion been?”

“Fucking wonderful,” Jason says neutrally, still reading.

“Jason Wayne,” Martha says gently from across the room.

“Sorry,” Jason says, looking up from his book for the first time, his expression chagrined. Then he glares at Dev.

But Dev is doing a mental count of how many times he’s sworn since arriving and he’s not sure.

“You, too?” Jason asks, suddenly amused. Dev’s discomfort seems to put him a bit at ease. “Let’s just get it over with now.”

“Do you’ve a room?”

“Here is dandy,” Jason says, after glancing around the rooms at the base of the stairs. He closes his book and scoots over on the step.

Dev kneels on one knee on the step, facing upstairs, and takes one of Jason’s arms. He examines the healing suture site, prods gently at the tendon and muscle underneath. Jason hisses softly at one point and Dev looks at his face, gauging the pallor and set of his lips and eyes more than he registers the sound itself or Jason’s dismissive grumbling a second after.

“Aren’t you a brain doctor?” Jason asks irritably when Dev moves on to the next arm, held stretched across his body.

“I’ve done residencies in most fields,” Dev says evenly, repeating the study of Jason’s inner elbow, his brow knitted. “But I’ve been reading orthopedic journals and texts the past few weeks. Is this arm harder to bend?”

“It’s tighter,” Jason says quietly. There’s bustling movement in the rooms below them, but no one seems to be paying them any attention.

“Lift your arm,” Dev says, his hand still on the inside of Jason’s elbow. “Try to bend it.”

After Jason drops his arm back down, Dev lets go and says, “When you get home, I’d like to x-ray this side again. But I think you’ll avoid surgery if you don’t push it. Now’s not the bloody time to start testing limits.”

Dev is almost shoved down onto the stairs face first by a weight on his back.

“Stop working!” Stephanie demands, springing back off of him and pulling his arm. “Jason’s arms won’t fall off if he has to wait a day. Come play Scattergories with us before dinner. Jay, you in?”

“Well, I’m not going to finish _Kristen Lavransdatter_ in this crowd,” Jason grumbles, “so I might as well.”

There’s already a game out on the dining room end of the long assembled table and a crowd that includes most of the kids.

Dev takes a seat and surveys the room and realizes he’s the oldest by at least fifteen years.

“Oi,” he says, when Timothy puts a pad of paper in his hands. “Where have the grown-ups gone? I’m not one of you.”

Timothy and Stephanie exchange a look and Stephanie smiles patronizingly at him.

“Devvy,” she says, “you are.”

“I’m not, _Stephen_ ,” he says archly. “But I’ll indulge you and play.”

“This is Kara, by the way. Kara, Dr. Dev.”

“Hello!” the blond girl waves and returns to sharpening the pencils dumped from the game box.

“You don’t have to be the only grownup,” Kon says from the other side of the table. And then without warning, he booms, “Clark! SCATTERGORIES.”

Clark’s there in a second, his facial expression nonchalant as he takes a seat.

“Lois is going to play,” he says.

“No, I’m not!” she yells from the kitchen.

“You are because you love me!” Clark yells back, turning. “And because I’ll write your next three community government pieces for you.”

“You won’t,” she says, joining them. “But I’ll play because you offered.”

Clark grins.

Dev is rot at word games and he knows it. He lasts two rounds before his frustration is outweighing the fun of watching everyone else compare answers and argue. He’s reluctant to argue, acutely aware of Martha Kent and Alfie in the kitchen nearby and his own penchant for explosive vocabulary.

“Did you know Scattergories was invented by a German doctor during med school? The early version was how he and his friends studied for tests,” Timothy says as they finish the third round.

“Oh my god, Tim,” Stephanie says, “please don’t make this about school.”

“I wasn’t!” the boy exclaims. “It’s interesting. You’re just oversensitive right now.”

“Finals are worth being sensitive about,” Kara says sympathetically, scowling at Timothy right after.

“What was his name?” Lois asks, her mobile in her hand. “Do you know?”

Clark is passing out fresh blank pieces of paper. It looks like the game set ran out of the pre-printed slips a long, long time ago.

“Lois, don’t fact check him,” he says, chuckling.

“I don’t know his name,” Timothy mutters. “It was just an interesting fact.”

“Stylopharyngeus, subclavius, subcostalis, subscapularis, superficial transverse perinei, superior oblique,” Dev rattles off, his eyes closed. “Bollocks, but this would have been rather helpful. I’d to do it all alphabetically.”

“Show off,” Stephanie mumbles.

Dev laughs and takes up his pencil again.

“This is my last round,” he says. “I can do muscles but I’m weak on utensils and magazines. I’m twenty points behind at least.”

“So, you’re one of those ‘quit when you’re losing’ people?” Lois asks, rolling the alphabet die.

Dev doesn’t miss Clark shoving her knee under the table. She pats Clark’s shoulder.

“I’m being nice, I’m making conversation,” she says.

“I’m not one for dragging out inevitable defeat,” Dev tells her. “It’s not quitting; it’s sodding surrender.”

Lois laughs and Clark looks relieved.

Dev looks around the table again as they start the next round. Kon and Timothy have their heads bent together, whispering about something, and then hurriedly turn to their own papers when they realize the timer is running.

And for the first time in years, Dev thinks of his sister Rani, honestly thinks about her and how much he misses her. He remembers her braid slapping his face when they were leaning over a game of Cluedo and she turned her head too fast. The pout of her mouth when he won the game, again, after she wasted her turns going in and out of the ballroom until he relented and let her use an extra token the next round just to make it pretend to dance.

He remembers her triumphant and satisfied grin when Leena joined them after her piano lesson and promptly thrashed him two times in a row, guessing the solution before he’d even had five marks on his paper.

Dev does a quick mental calculation and realizes with a start it’s been twenty-two years since he’s seen or heard from her. Timothy Wayne wasn’t even born yet. And even though suddenly missing her is a deep and stinging ache, not knowing if she’s alive or dead or well or poor or still with the Canadian bloke she’d run off with, he’s also glad to remember her toothy grin and the ghost of a tiny kiss she planted on his cheek when she and Leena finally admitted they’d been helping each other cheat; his inability to stay angry at her when she was making the tokens ask each other for tea a second later.

“What do you have for the second one?” Jason asks, leaning over to look at Dev’s paper, which is completely blank. “That’s the only one that–”

He stops talking and looks at Dev.

Dev realizes that they’re already comparing answers, ruling things out; Kara and Kon are arguing about the inclusion of an adjective that might count as a proper noun.

“Surrender,” Dev says to Jason, forcing a smile and standing, excusing himself from the game. “I’m well out.”

He wanders into the kitchen, where he finds Alfie with his sleeves rolled up mixing something in a bowl with his hands. Martha is coring apples, flanked by Cass peeling apples on one side and Damian chopping them on the other.

Dev studies the covered fridge, taking in the pictures and holiday cards with a kind of detached curiosity. There’s an old and tattered drawing of the farm, and next to it, a turkey made of a handprint but colored in with intricate, feathered detail. It’s initialed DW and dated for the current year. He grins at it, his heart warmed.

“I promised Jonathan I would assist him with feeding the pigs,” Damian says, and when Dev turns the younger boy is setting a knife in the sink and rinsing his hands.

“You tell him dinner is in an hour,” Martha instructs him and the boy nods.

Dev leaves the kitchen and goes through to the front porch. He’s feeling too warm in his sweater, even with the sleeves pushed up, and the house feels overloud to him.

Wayne is sitting on the front step, looking out across the yard to where a small creek is babbling. Damian went out the back or side door, but runs past them in brown work boots through the yard and up the short slope to the nearest barn.

Dev sits down next to Wayne and sighs.

“You alright?” Wayne asks, glancing over.

Dev nods, staring a bit blankly at the gravel of the driveway. He shakes himself a bit.

“Eh,” he says with a shrug, looking over to the creek. The air is blessedly cool, bloody wonderful after the roasting-food-and-crowded-human-body warmth of the house.

“It’s hard for me, too,” Wayne says quietly, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. “It’s good for the kids. That’s why I agreed. They wouldn’t have come without me. And Alfred. He needs this.”

Dev is leaning back on his outstretched arms and staring at the back of Wayne’s head, a little shocked. He’s known the man over a year now and he’s not used to explanations for decisions.

“Damian seems rather keen on the place,” Dev observes, still looking at Wayne.

“Damian loves it here,” Wayne answers quickly. “If he wouldn’t interpret it as rejection, I’d leave him here for a year or two, let him have a normal childhood. It’s not my strong suit.”

Dev glances back toward the house, where a few aliens and a clone are laughing with the Waynes, including a once-dead one.

“I’m not entirely certain ‘normal’ is this farm’s strong suit, either, mate.”

Wayne laughs, soft and rueful.

“The Kents know how to raise a child, though,” he says. “And Martha would take him if I asked. But I can’t do that to him, not after what Talia…”

He trails off and sighs.

“I am not anything close to qualified to talk about fathers, mate,” Dev says. “But I don’t think you’re even half as shite as you seem to think you are. I’ve been ‘round the manor. You read with him, you build with him, you let him keep those sodding massive hounds just because he needs them.”

“Thanks for coming today, Dev.” Wayne says without turning to look at him. “You want to take a walk?”

“Bloody hell, yes,” Dev says, already on his feet. “Just a second.”

Dev goes around the house, reaches in through the back door, and grabs his still-shiny new Converse trainers. He returns to the front, where Wayne is standing with his hands in his pockets, and sits on the step again to put them on.

When Wayne leads them away from the house, it’s away from the barn and the creek and off through a field on a footpath worn in a straight line through the dead, bent, dusty-tan stalks of corn plant.

They’re almost across the field when Dev says,

“You could send him in the summers.”

“What?” Wayne says, his pace steady.

The path widens as the plowed rows end and the path cuts into tangled grass, dull green with autumn sleep. Dev takes a quick step or two and is alongside Wayne instead of behind him.

“Damian, mate. You could send him in the summer. My grandparents had a rice paddy farm along the Sind River and I went there on school holidays for a few years.”

“Hn,” Wayne says. After a pause, he asks, “Your father’s parents?”

“My mum’s,” Dev says. “My da was raised English. Or halfway. It was a bloody mess. My mum’s.”

“Hn,” Wayne says again. “That’s not a bad idea. I can’t pull him out of school like this again for a long time.”

They walk in silence for a while and Dev hums a bit, not paying much attention to what he’s humming. He’s not even sure it’s an actual song.

“Is that _In the Hall of the Mountain King_?” Wayne asks. “Because you’re butchering the second bar.”

“I don’t know,” Dev scowls. “I just like making noise. Bollocks, I’m not even sure where I heard it.”

“Jay’s ringtone,” Wayne answers, humming the bit he’d criticized.

Dev thinks about it for a minute.

“Cor,” he says, musing, rubbing a wrist unconsciously. His sleeves are still pushed up on his arms and the chilly northern breeze now pushing against the grass is like a balm on the burns.

“How are-”

“Don’t,” Dev says a little sharply. “I’m bloody sick of being asked.”

Wayne shrugs, just a small one-shouldered motion.

“How are you?” Dev asks, even though he himself just refused to answer.

“You know,” Wayne says, sounding a little surprised, “I’ve had a hard few weeks. But today, I’m alright. I’m just relieved and happy today and I don’t know what the hell to do with it.”

“You and me both, mate,” Dev says, tugging his sleeves down now against the chill. The sun is dipping low in the sky behind them; Dev looks across the sun-drenched field over his shoulder, the house out of sight except for the roof.

The light is a bit cold, a gold tinted with steely gray through the clouds and distance of the season. It’s approaching the icy quality of winter light, glinting on the shaved off stubs of cornstalk and exposed dirt.

Dev stops to look at it, inhaling deeply of the loamy wind, the breath at the back of his throat clean and free of smog or soot from the city.

“ _Dinner_ ,” comes a faint cry on the air, and Wayne stops and turns, too. He’s another five meters beyond Dev, but covers the return distance quickly.

Back at the house, Dev kicks his trainers back off on the porch, perversely pleased at the prospect of cleaning dirt off them later and how much closer they are to being worn in.

He and Wayne join the others inside, crowding around the table full of food. Timothy makes eye contact and points to a chair next to him.

Dev nods.

Jonathan Kent is near the dining room head of the table and he whips his worn trucker hat off, tucks it under his arm.

“I,” he says, and the noise in the room settles. “I hope you don’t mind too much, but Martha and I’ve wanted a full house again for years. I’d feel a mite irresponsible if I didn’t say a word of grace.”

He looks at Wayne, but it is Alfie who answers.

“Please,” is all he says, with a look at Wayne that Dev sees but doesn’t understand.

The old farmer closes his eyes and makes the sign of the cross.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty in Christ Our Lord, Amen.”

He makes the sign of the cross again as Dev realizes he possibly should have closed his eyes in respect, but because his eyes are open, he sees that Clark makes the same motion, automatic at first and halting at the end as if caught off guard by his own movement.

Lois raises an eyebrow at Clark and he shrugs at her. The room is full with the scattered echoes of amens, and then falls silent again.

“Well, I’m gonna tan some hides if you let that food we slaved away over get cold,” Martha says. “Sit and eat!”

And the room bursts into motion again.

Dev sidles along the wall, pressed back by chairs, until he reaches Timothy and the open seat.

Damian is already sitting on the other side of him.

“Martha made hummus,” the boy says as soon as Dev sits down. “It is fairly good.”

Stephanie across from them, hears this and stops mid-conversation with Kara and Cass to call down the table, “Martha, I need your hummus recipe.”

Damian grins down at his plate.

Dev tousles his hair and the boy, for once, doesn’t pull away. A plate of rolls is passed and Dev takes one.

“Where’s this hummus?” he asks and Damian hands him the bowl.

Two hours later, Dev is half asleep on a reclining chair in the reassembled living room while others watch a college football game on the telly. He’s not sure he’ll ever need to eat again.

“Pie,” Alfie says calmly, setting two on the table. “Help yourselves.”

Of the crowd in the living room, only Jason rouses, putting down his book to go look.

Martha is carrying in another two pies from the kitchen and Dev groggily looks at his mobile and forces himself up onto his feet.

“I’d not realized the time,” he says to Alfie, yawning. “My flight is off soon. Thank you both for dinner.”

“That’s a long day for you,” Martha says, before Alfie can speak.

“Eh,” Dev says. “I’ll sleep on the plane. I’ve tomorrow off, so I won’t put anyone in danger.”

Alfie and Martha exchange a Look. A Look that lets Dev know a wiser man would have kept his mouth shut, said his goodbyes, and left without another word.

“I know it doesn’t look it, but we’ve got space,” Martha says, glancing at the crowded living room and then toward the back deck. Dev vaguely remembers talk of plans for a bonfire.

“Why don’t you stay the night?” Martha asks. “We’ll find a spot for you.”

“If you do indeed have the day off,” Alfie says and Dev hesitates.

“I’d rather not be an imposition,” he says, knowing it’s futile.

“Nonsense,” Martha says. “You’re all impositions and I love it. Stay and get some rest.”

She turns and goes back to the kitchen as if the matter is absolutely settled, and Dev supposes it rather is.

Alfie pats him on the shoulder as he goes by.

“Go roast a marshmallow, Kiran,” he says, “and enjoy the night.”

And far be it from him to get in a bloody row with Alfie, over marshmallows of all the nonsense.

“Very well, then,” Dev says as if he’s resigned. “I shall.”

And he does.


	24. hike w/mate tim. sis rings. fml. 23 dec. vernon state park.

The winter sky is just breaking grey light through the deep cold indigo of night, the last glittering stars of a moonless night clinging to the edge of the western horizon.

Dev should be exhausted but he is not; he has been in surgery for fourteen hours and by all bloody rights, he should be absolutely shattered, dead on his feet.

But after chipping away millimeter by millimeter at a tumor that was the size of a walnut and hard as a geode, a close call with a blood clot, and a hidden aneurysm that had required tense snapping and an extra nurse sent in, the patient had come out of sedation and asked for his wife.

Dev had gone to find her himself after seeing the man to the ICU and changing out of splattered scrubs and bloody hell what a good morning it is, even if it is -9° C when he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and hurries to his car.

He sits in the driver’s seat running the heater with his scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and just so sodding happy to be alive and doing what he does.

Sixteen hours on his feet and he should be ready to go home and crawl into bed and not move for hours, maybe wake up and make espresso and watch BBC Christmas specials and eat copious amounts of take-out.

Even the throbbing ache in his wrists doesn’t discourage him. They rarely do more than sting a little except when he’s used them a lot, and fourteen hours of surgery absolutely counts as a lot. But _even then_.

There is no way he is sleeping.

His bag is in the back, with his winter boots and gloves and now-frozen water bottles and protein bars.

If he goes right now, he’ll be there just as the sunrise is turning pale violet into icy December white.

He is almost out of Gotham when he veers suddenly left and doubles back. Within a few minutes he is standing outside a flat door, knocking in the chilly dawn light.

Timothy answers the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His hair is short and trimmed close around the ears and he looks about five years older than when Dev saw him two days previous.

“What happened to your bloody hair?” Dev asks, forgetting for a moment why he had come.

“Did you honestly wake me up at,” Timothy looks over his shoulder into the dark recesses of the flat, “six forty in the morning to ask me about my hair?”

“No, of course not,” Dev says, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “I’ve had a brilliant night and I want you to get your boots and coat and anything else that you use to keep yourself warm and come with me on a hike. And _also_ what happened to your hair?”

“Dev, it’s _freezing_ out,” Timothy replies. “Come in so I can shut the door.”

Dev steps into the flat and Timothy all but slams the door behind him. They stand under the single bulb hanging over the vinyl-floored entry while Timothy yawns.

“C’mon,” Dev says. “Get your things. I’ll wait.”

“I’m not going on a hike,” Timothy says, yawning again. “It’s so cold and I just want to go back to bed.”

Dev leaves him in the entry and goes to rummage in the bedroom closet. Timothy follows after him, making a show of dragging his feet.

“I got a haircut for Alfred,” Timothy says, as the pile on the bed grows. There’s a long-sleeved shirt and pants, socks and a pair of boots, and now a scarf. “As a Christmas present,” Timothy clarifies.

“Bollocks,” Dev says. “Do you even have anything thermal?”

“I’m not going,” Timothy says again, but he sounds less certain. “And I’m growing my hair back out. I hate this. It makes me feel like a frat boy.”

“I don’t bloody care about your hair,” Dev says, “it looks fine. Get dressed.”

Timothy grumbles as Dev leaves the room and heads to the kitchen. He stares for a moment at the collection of coffee makers in the cupboard-- there are at minimum five different kinds. He closes the cupboard again.

“I’ll buy you a coffee on the way,” Dev shouts across the flat. “I might even have one.”

“You _are_ a sadist,” Timothy says, emerging from the bedroom dressed and looking at his phone. “The high today is only 23° fahrenheit.”

“And I would feel right awful dragging you out except I know you bloody well patrol in colder,” Dev replies. He tugs at his scarf because he’s starting to feel overwarm in the heated flat. “And this is for mental health.”

Timothy looks down at the carpet beneath his wool socks. His boots are dangling from his hand and his phone is still out in the other, but he doesn’t move to use either of them.

“Did,” he pauses. “Did your surgery, um, go…”

“It was ace,” Dev says. “Spotty for a bit and then right smashing.”

“Oh, good,” Timothy says, relieved. He holds his phone up and takes a picture without warning.

“Oi,” Dev says, holding up a hand a second too late. “What are you doing?”

Timothy drops his boots next to him to type with both thumbs.

“I’m sending this to Steph and telling her you’ve kidnapped me just in case you’ve snapped and I need help later.”

“Bloody hell, Timothy, you might as well just send it to everyone,” Dev mutters.

“Okay,” Timothy says casually, giving Dev a cold look. “Group text it is.”

“I’ve promised you coffee,” Dev says in protest. “And the hike will do you good.”

“If you’re dragging me out in the freezing cold on your victory hike,” Timothy says, pocketing his phone to tug his boots on, “then I can do whatever I want with that information.”

Timothy’s phone emits a long string of buzzing noises and he pulls it back out of his pocket after tying his boots. A faint smile tugs at his lips and then is replaced by a scowl. He types furiously for a moment and Dev is curious, because he is _always_ curious despite his own better sense.

“Alfred asked how much you want for ransom but Bruce said they aren’t paying anything because he trained me better than this,” Timothy says without looking up from his phone. “And Dick is still asleep, damnit, so I have no one to defend me. And now Damian is asking if he can have all my stuff when you kill me, great. And Jason is just sending gifs of people laughing. Thanks a lot, Dev.”

“Me?” Dev exclaims, amused and offended at once, “This is your own doing, mate. I just wanted to take you on a nice hike.”

“I’m adding you to this,” Timothy says, still typing. “I want someone to see how they treat me, even if it’s my murderer. At least Alfred loves me.”

“A hike!” Dev yelps, as his own phone vibrates in his pocket. “Bloody hell, how’d we get to murder?”

And even though he thinks he’s been doing fine, his wrists suddenly ache a bit more than they had been. Or maybe he just notices them more.

He looks at his phone to distract himself.

The group text already has half a dozen unread messages and he opens it. All of the numbers are already saved in his phone and show up as contacts with their names or nicknames.

There are emojis from Cass, just an ambiguous cup of tea and a knife. Stephanie has just sent, _after I sleep tim its christmas_.

He skims the others and pockets the phone.

“Let’s go,” he says impatiently. “We’ll miss the sunrise.”

The phone is vibrating again but he ignores it.

“Ugh,” Timothy says, zipping his coat. “For the record, I am still opposed to this idea but I am a _good friend_.”

“Noted,” Dev says, pulling the door open. “I’ll tell the others you fought but I bested you.”

Timothy laughs and then steps out into the cold and his laugh cuts off into a scowl. He grumbles all the way to Dev’s car and mutters into the coffee Dev orders for him at a nearby cafe the whole drive up the mountains.

But when they pull into the car park, crunching over gravel and the dusting of snow that’s already melted in Gotham but clings to the bare branches here, Timothy is quiet.

Dev’s phone has been vibrating against his leg the whole drive up and he tugs it out of his pocket just enough to silence it.

“Dev,” he says, looking out the window, “this is really pretty.”

“Come along,” Dev says, climbing out of the car and going around to the boot for his bag.

Bundled against the nippy wind, Dev leads the way down a trail and they hike as the sun pushes up into the eastern sky. After thirty minutes, Dev unwinds his scarf and drapes it over his shoulder.

He turns to check on Timothy and motions for him to take the lead.

They stop once to look at some tracks frozen in the mud of the trail but don’t stay for long. Timothy tramps back to take a picture when they start arguing about what animal it was, but other than that they are mostly quiet as they climb the hills and clamber down the shallow ravines.

Dev’s wrists ache and fatigue is starting to creep up on him but he still feels like his heart could burst. The mountains are gorgeous and every bit of sleeping twig seems to have grand meaning and beauty of its own. Timothy, when he glances over his shoulder to look at a cardinal that flies by them, is awed and peaceful, and Dev’s own sodding hands saved someone’s fucking life just hours ago and it’s _Christmas_.

He doesn’t bloody care what anyone thinks or how awful his voice certainly is. He starts singing Christmas carols as they hike, almost under his breath at first but growing louder with every verse.

“Dev,” Timothy says, “you’re going to scare the wildlife away.”

“Sod off, Timothy,” Dev says between lines of _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_.

Timothy doesn’t say anything else but Dev catches a grin and a few minutes later, Timothy’s lips moving as he mouths along. He never actually joins in but Dev doesn’t care, he doesn’t need encouragement or support, he’s just well pleased with life.

When they make it back to the car, Dev takes a long drink of icy water and then bothers to look at his mobile. There’s a whole slew of unread texts and seven missed calls.

Another call comes in just as he taps the voicemail icon. It takes a second for the mobile to register the name of the incoming call, and when it does, it is not who he was expecting.

It’s a British number, his sister’s name on the ID.

The shock and confusion are likely immediately evident on his face but Timothy is sipping water and looking at something on the bottom of one boot.

“Kam?” Dev answers. “What’s–”

“Kiran Sidney,” she snaps. “Bloody fucking hell, I’ve been ringing you for over two hours now.”

Timothy looked up at him when Dev first spoke and now after seeing Dev’s face, he bites his lip and then climbs into the passenger seat and shuts the door. Dev wanders away from the car without quite meaning to, instinctively seeking isolation.

“What’s wrong?” Dev asks, sick with dread. Every wisp of good mood is dissolving fast. Kamala sounded furious but he can hear her crying, too.

“It’s mum, Kiran,” she says, after another few seconds. “She’s really sick.”

There’s the sound of weeping for a minute and Dev is quiet. He can’t remember the last time he heard Kamala cry-- she might have been six. Maybe five.

“She, um,” she says, clearing her throat a little. “Mum wanted me to ring you. She said she didn’t have your American number.”

“What kind of sick, Kam?” he hears himself flatly asking, as if from a distance. The cold around him, biting at his face and ungloved fingers, feels bitter and sinister now instead of invigorating.

“I don’t know,” she says and he can tell she’s lying. “Bloody hell, Kiran, it’s just bad, yeah? She wanted me to ring you, I’ve tried all afternoon, you’ve answered, now you’ve been told. I’ve got to go pick up Tyler from school.”

“Kam!” Dev snaps. “How bad? I’ll come home today.”

“Why fucking bother? You’ve not been in years. They don’t even have your bloody number, Kiran. You know, but mum saves all your articles, yeah, and you can’t even be bothered to ring them once in awhile.”

Dev takes a long, slow breath. He has to remind himself three times before speaking again, that Kamala was seven when he left for uni and there was so much she missed; they had different lives in the same house.

“I’ll come home, Kam,” he says again. “Let mum know I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I’ve been sixteen hours in surgery and I’m exhausted. I’ll sleep and then I’ll come.”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. I’ll be packing for the north,” she says, but she doesn’t sound angry anymore. “I’m sorry, Kiran. She’ll be well pleased and she needs it. Please come, I’m sorry I’ve been nasty. I’m really frightened for her. She’s sodding miserable but won’t rest. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. And if you stay a bit, maybe we can get lunch when I get back from holidays. I’ll bring Tyler.”

“Yeah,” he says and she hangs up on him.

Dev stands staring at his phone beneath the skeletal trees for a moment, hardly registering the redness of his own hand or the numbness of his cheeks.

Then he stomps over to the car and gets in and just sits for a second before turning the key in the ignition.

“Is everything okay?” Timothy asks.

“No,” Dev says flatly. “I’m going home for Christmas.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…” Timothy says slowly.

“It isn’t,” Dev agrees, but he doesn’t say he won’t go.

And neither of them speak again the whole drive back to Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. rapidly cutting back into angst, cheers.
> 
> also, for those wondering why the description of the Kent farm wasn't strictly flat land, comic canon has Smallville at 32 miles from Wichita. That's nearing Flint Hills country, which looks like this: 
> 
> https://i.ytimg.com/vi/ENKLo3vHqAU/maxresdefault.jpg  
> https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5c/Konza2.jpg


	25. ...  24 dec. earth.

The snow is blustering fitfully outside while Dev sits in an armchair, a tight and knotted ball of tension. The conversation he has not yet had with his parents hangs over him like an angry storm cloud, waiting to break. Neither of them have said anything. He checks his mobile again. There are no new messages and the most recent is unchanged, one his sister sent an hour ago.

_no kiran. tyler is off w/mates. in morning we go to peter’s mums house in north. ring me sometime, we’ll get tea._

He can hear his mum moving pots around in the kitchen and the smell of rice and dhaniwal korma drift across the room. His stomach tightens. He’s avoided turmeric for a long time because of this house. He rubs unconsciously at the scars on his wrists.

Seven feet away from him, his father is sitting stiffly in another chair. The telly is on, playing late afternoon Christmas Eve specials. It’s strange to look at the man now and feel his hatred outweighing his fear.

“So, Da,” Dev says, leaning forward a bit. “Mum says you’ve been teaching at the officer’s school.”

“Consulting,” his father says, gruffly.

Dev falls silent.

“Why are you here, Kiran?” his father asks, staring at the telly.

Dev thought he was tense before.

“It’s Christmas,” he shrugs. “Haven’t been round in a bit.”

“Six years,” his father replies.

“Kam rang me,” Dev says finally, tired of waiting. “She said mum was ill.”

“ _Sunita!_ ,” his father roars, already on his feet. His parents meet halfway between the kitchen and living room. “Kiran says you’re ill. Are you?”

Dev watches them, his little, dark-skinned wisp of a mother staring up at the face of his tall half-Indian half-British father. He remembers being surprised the first time time he realized it wasn’t normal for his peers at school to have a mother who had been shipped from overseas per an arrangement of money and family names.

He remembers his daadaa and how proud he was of this woman he’d found for his son, how unlike his own British wife she was. How bitterly he fought with his own wife in front of Dev about everything even when he sat in their kitchen with a biscuit at four years old, how his grandmum smuggled him bits of English sweets while she complained about the man she’d married and borne exactly and only one son for. How his daadaa pulled him aside when he was nine, the man nearly on his deathbed, and scolded him,

“Listen to your father, Kiran. I ignored my father and married that English bitch and I’ve regretted it all my life. She never could cook worth anything.”

Dev’s own mum never raised her voice against his father except where it concerned her daughters; the only rows they ever had were about miniskirts and make-up and curfews.

When Dev had asked her once if she’d talk to his father about Dev dropping cricket for a computer club, she’d told him firmly,

“It is a father’s job to raise a son.”

And now he’s sitting in the living room looking at them, and her eyes flit from his father’s to Dev’s and back.

“I told Kamala I had a spot of chill. I’m fine.”

Dev’s father gives him an accusing look and returns to the television. For once in his life, Dev glares back. Then he stands.

Dev follows her into the kitchen, swallowing hard against the smell of curry powder and coconut milk.

“How bad is it?” he asks her, glancing once over his shoulder as the volume goes up on the telly.

“Stage four,” she says.

Dev feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He is stone, an aching and shattering statue.

“Where? Kam wouldn’t say.”

“Pancreatic.”

“And you’ve haven’t told him? Bloody hell, mum. Should I?”

“Don’t,” she says sharply, hissing at him and looking toward the living room. “He doesn’t need to worry.”

Dev leans on the counter and blinks at the floor, his arms crossed.

“I’ll stay,” he says. “You’ll need someone. He’s going to find out once you start chemo. You can’t hide that.”

“I’m not starting chemo,” she says flatly, stirring rice in a pot. “They said the odds were poor. It is very advanced.”

“Bloody hell, mum,” he says again. “I can…I can look over your charts. We can get a second opinion.”

And then she meets his eyes with a glare.

“No, Kiran,” she says. “It’s too late. Let me have a few months of peace and go my own way.”

Dev swallows, the smell of onion stinging his nostrils.

“I’ll come back, then,” he says. “When you need more help.”

“No,” she says again. “Kamala will help me. And Leena will come stay. You don’t need to come back. You,” she stops, shakes spice over a pan of food and doesn’t speak again.

“I what?” Dev demands, irritated. “Out with it.”

“You make him nervous,” she says, looking up at his face with a steady eye. “You always have.”

“I make _him_ nervous?” Dev exclaims, more loudly than he intended. “Sod off, mum. What do you bloody mean I make him nervous?”

“Shh,” she hisses, grabbing at his arm and pulling him to the far side of the kitchen. The telly is blaring. “Don’t speak to me like I’m one of your patients. And yes, you have _always_ made him nervous. You’re so clever, Kiran. You’ve been since you were small. And I’m proud of you, very proud, but it’s hard for him to feel stupid in his own house.”

Dev cannot speak. His throat is closing up with the smell of cardamom and turmeric and green onions. His heart is racing and he knows he’d set off alarms if he was hooked to a blood pressure cuff right this second.

“I have to go,” he says, fighting back a memory of yellow sauce and aromatic rice and clattering silverware and a broken plate and vegetables dripping down the wall while his hands shook under the table and his sisters left him alone with their father in the dining room.

“I _am_ proud of you, Kiran,” she says again, stretching on her tiptoes to kiss his face. “I wish you could stay. But holidays are hard for your father; you know how daadaa and grandmum fought. He didn’t have an easy childhood, not like mine.”

“I have to go,” he says again. “I’m leaving a gift for Tyler.”

“I’ll see him next week,” she says, even though tomorrow is Christmas and Tyler is the only grandson. “But you could go stay with Kamala. She and Peter have a spare room.”

“No,” he watches as she turns off the stove. He doesn’t want to touch her. He might never see her again. He gives her a hug, wrapping his arms around her, the heat from the skillets sharp on his wrist. “I’ll ring her later.”

It takes him all of five minutes to pack. He leaves the unwrapped gift for his nephew on the bed of his old room, cluttered now with boxes and exercise equipment and piles of military officer magazines.

At the door, he pauses and his father calls across the room,

“Going out? If you come back drunk, the door will be locked.”

Dev doesn’t answer but he slams the door behind him.

Through the streets dark by four in the afternoon and the spitting snow and the crowded airport, he is numb.

He is numb through the in-flight dinner he does not touch, he is numb through the first class alcoholic drink he orders, he is numb.

He is forty one years old and he is numb and does not know where he is running, only that he has to get away from all of fucking London and the smell of korma in his parents’ pristine house and the words _you make him nervous_.

Bloody. Hell.

He is numb.

His mobile is in his pocket but he cannot think to text or ring anyone, even when he gets off the plane to another crowded airport full of shrieking children and already-exhausted parents and elderly couples checking their tickets repeatedly.

His mother is going to die within a year, maybe within the month.

He was told not to come home, but it hasn’t been home in a long, long time.

He starts his car without planning where he will go and fifteen minutes later he is sitting in the hospital parking lot.

Dev sighs, goes into the building through a back entrance, and shrugs his lab coat on to check some samples that do not need to be checked, to edit a paper on neurotoxin recovery that could definitely wait a few days.

“Hey, didn’t know you drew the short straw, too,” the voice of a resident startles him. “I’m not going to be in your way, am I? I have a STAT order and the path lab is swamped.”

“Just finishing up some things,” Dev says without turning. They work in silence for a few minutes.

“Dr. Dev,” the resident asks from the doorway, on his way out, “Is she good to you? The research? I’m proposing to my girlfriend tomorrow but I’m afraid it’ll be unfair to her.”

“Propose and have a bloody good life,” Dev says, still without turning. “The lab is a bitch.”

The resident seems to think this is a joke and he’s laughing, “Merry Christmas!” when he goes into the hall.

Dev takes his lab coat off and leaves.

Again, he drives without planning. He roams the streets of Gotham in his car, slowing and stopping for drunks and last minute shoppers as they stumble through the crosswalks. He is pulling into the drive of Wayne Manor before he is aware that his roaming developed purpose.

And it is warmth breaking through the numbness, this quite weird family and how it has merged with his own life. He had been invited for Christmas Eve dinner and cannot remember why he had declined, even before Kam rung him.

He parks his car and sprints up the steps, raises one hand to the door and goes stiff and tense all over. For a lurching moment, he is certain he will wake in the chair by his father’s telly, the whole afternoon and evening a bad dream in the middle of a pissing muck of an afternoon.

But no. He’s actually there, in the frigid wind on the top of the steps, after flying to London and back in the same day and a half.

And now, belatedly, he remembers the reason he declined to join the Waynes for Christmas Eve, while the smell of mulligatawny stew thick with curry powder and coconut milk washes over him even out here in the chilled air. A tradition, Alfie had said, of an old British-Indian favorite food served on happier evenings. The older man had sounded as if it might remind Dev of England.

Unfortunately, it does.

Dev cannot move, cannot catch his breath in the wind, cannot think. Then slowly he turns and clomps down the stairs and back to his car. He sits behind the steering wheel and puts the keys in the ignition, but he does not turn them to start the engine. He just sits.

He watches snow gathering on the bonnet and then being swept off the car by the wind. It swirls in the air and then falls again, scattering across the gravel in icy half-melted bits of white and dirty gray from the warm bonnet.

He could go down to the lab, through the Cave, and work on something, anything. He could go out on the piss and fall into bed rat-arsed before dawn with all his clothes on.

The metal has cooled enough that the snow is starting to stick and form a thin layer of slush over the bonnet when Timothy comes out of the front door and jogs down the steps and opens the driver door.

“I thought you went to London,” he says, leaning down in his sweater and breathing out warm clouds on his hands.

“I did,” Dev says, watching the snow through the windshield.

Timothy stands there another minute, stamping his feet against the cold. Slippers flap against the hard gravel.

“Okay,” Timothy says and then he closes the door and goes back inside the manor.

Dev puts a hand on the keys but still doesn’t turn them. His mouth is dry and the longer he sits, the better cheap American beer at a dingy Gotham bar is sounding.

Then the front door opens again. Alfie steps out on the porch wrapped in a gray wool coat against the wind. Dev looks up from the snow he’s been staring at and he forgets everything except…everything. He isn’t numb anymore.

He doesn’t want to get drunk, he doesn’t want to work, he doesn’t want to hike or play games to distract himself.

The older man is halfway down the steps and Dev is staring at him, a hundred cups of tea between them and his mum is dying and they’ve told him to not come home. He’s always been too clever but he cannot sort himself or what he wants right now.

Driven by pure instinct, he’s stumbling out of the cold car into the colder air and when Alfie is right at the bonnet of his beaten-up hatchback they collide.

He expects, in the back of his mind, that it will be stiff and cause the other man discomfort and he hasn’t decided what he would do if it were the case. But Alfie’s embrace is warm and ready and he wraps his arms around him.

Dev clings like a drowning man. His hands are shaking. It is not the cold.

“My mum is dying,” is the first thing he can think to say. "And she told me not to come home again. She said I make him nervous. I don’t know why he’s always hated me.”

“Good Lord,” Alfie says softly, Dev’s head bent against his shoulder. "He was monstrous to you. There’s nothing wrong with _you_ , Kiran. There never has been.”

Dev is forty one and an accomplished neurosurgeon, a head-hunted researcher, an author of academic papers published in prestigious journals, and he knows so many things but he doesn’t know how long he stands in the spitting snow sobbing into a scratchy gray coat while he is held up by thin, strong arms.

When he is spent and growing still, Alfie says without moving,

“Come along inside, Kirry. Let’s warm you up.”

And Dev stiffens.

“I can’t,” he mumbles miserably. “I tried but the curry powder. I smell it and home is all I can think about.”

“Stop calling it home,” Alfie says a little reproachfully. And then more gently, “They’ve put it away. I left instructions to bleach the counters.”

Dev pulls back from the older man and scrubs at his own cold face with his hands.

“I’m sorry I’m ruining your Christmas Eve.”

“Nonsense,” Alfie says. “I don’t think you could ruin it if you tried. Come in. I’ve a key and a bed for you; it was going to be a present but I suppose it’s worth spoiling for this. You can lie down if you aren’t up to seeing the others, but come out of this damned cold.”

Inside, the manor smells like Clorox and lemon-scented soap. There’s a platter of sandwiches and a mug of tea in the dark kitchen and the noise of a movie playing down the hall in the den.

Dev stands and eats a sandwich at the counter. He should be tired but he’s jittery, a little shaky, and he can’t remember when he last ate; it wasn’t on the plane and it certainly wasn’t in London.

He eats three sandwiches while standing and staring dazedly at the counter.

“These are bloody good,” he says around a mouthful of bread and lunchmeat.

“They are,” Wayne agrees, stepping into the kitchen and filling a glass with water. He stands next to Alfred and gives the older man a fond smile. “Alfred’s sandwiches always are.”

Dev sips the mug of tea and then looks at it in surprise.

“This is chai,” he says flatly.

He remembers some of the few absolutely blissful times he had as a boy, the holidays he spent on a rice paddy farm with his elderly maternal grandparents before they died.

The last year they had been worried about keeping him during a monsoon season, but he’d happily spent the bulk of the holiday near them inside their small farmhouse reading books and sipping chai tea his naanii made by the pot. Even curry hadn’t bothered him there. He hadn’t wanted to leave and he’d cried himself to sleep when he returned home even though he was twelve.

He’d never gotten to go back. He stuck to British tea, mostly, after that.

He cannot remember if he ever told Alfie, but somehow, the man knew. Dev is feeling choked up all over again.

“I’m going out to say Merry Christmas,” Wayne says quietly to Alfred, putting his empty glass down in the sink.

“Do you mind if I come along?” Dev asks. “I’ll hang back a good bit.”

They look at each other for a moment and then Wayne nods.

“Let me get my coat,” he says.

The walk is bit with freezing wind across the field away from the manor but Dev doesn’t feel it, his collar turned up around his scarf and his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his overcoat.

When they crest the hill and the tombstones loom dark and snow capped on the ridge, Dev hangs back as promised and watches Wayne. The other man’s steps do not falter or slow and Dev knows the path is a well-trodden one, rarely neglected.

He stays at the edge of the plot when Wayne keeps walking forward and waits. There is a low murmur of one-sided conversation, brief and soft, and then Wayne turns around and begins the walk back to the house without slowing near Dev.

Dev tracks his movement across the field and Wayne stops halfway, looks up at the sky.

And Dev steps up to the ornate tombstones, carved granite covered with chiseled letters. He feels the cold now, dulling the tip of his nose and sending prickles along his wrists, over his tender scars.

He imagines standing in a rainy London field staring at his own mother’s tombstone and what he would say to it, the things he will say when she isn’t alive.

_I hope you rot in hell. You never once protected me. I’m sorry you were stuck with him. You bloody well deserved better. I hate you, I love you, I don’t sodding know._

But it isn’t his mother’s tombstone yet and now snow is piling in his hair, sticking about his collar and dripping onto his neck beneath the scarf.

“I’m a bit torn,” Dev confesses to the tombstones. “Quite, actually. Because I rather feel that if you were here right now, I bloody well wouldn’t be. Anyway. Merry Christmas.”

He meant to say more. There is more rolling around inside him but he doesn’t know what words to use. Finally, he steps back and shouts across the field.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know they’re your parents but bugger me, I’m sodding bad at talking to rocks.”

Wayne laughs, halfway across the snowy expanse.

“Now you know where I get it from,” he shouts back.

“Was that a joke?” Dev is stomping across the snow now, swiping snow off his neck with one stiff hand. “Is it a bloody Christmas miracle already?”

They stomp across the field together, leaving a trail of grass bent under the crust of snow, their heads surrounded by the fog of their own breath in the air.

Inside, they hang their coats and Dev tucks his hands under his armpits as they walk to the den. There’s an empty chair for Wayne and a spot left for Dev on the couch and an old black and white movie playing. Alfred nods to them both.

He’s barely on the couch before his shoulders dip under the weight of Timothy and Steph’s heads.

“Oi, there,” he whispers at them both. “I’ve not showered and I smell like piss. Leave off for your own good.”

Neither of them move.

“It’s a concerted effort to keep you here,” Timothy says, sipping from a mug of chai in his hands and somehow not spilling even with his head tipped sideways.

Anise and ginger and Darjeeling drift together beneath Dev’s nose and it’s like having his head cleaned out and set to rights.

“Also, you don’t smell like piss,” Stephanie says. “Or I would tell you right now. Now shut up and watch the movie.”

Dev shuts up.

And five minutes later, with his head tipped against the back of the couch and the two teens leaning against his shoulders like sounding weights, he is deeply and thoroughly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's not been a full day since i posted, but i'm busy/gone all day tomorrow and i don't like leaving cliffhangers for a long time.


	26. w/wayne family. i bloody hate nail polish. 1 jan. wayne manor

“Good lord, are you still awake?”

Alfie’s voice cuts across the den to where Dev is sitting on the couch still in his slacks and tux shirt, the bow tie hanging around his neck and the jacket thrown over the end of the couch.

“Happy new year to you, too,” Dev replies, jamming the left trigger button on the controller.

“I thought you’d gone to bed hours ago,” Alfie says, beginning to tidy the room around them. There are remnants of snacks and a card game from when Stephanie and Damian had decamped from the New Year’s Eve charity gala in the east ballroom to the den hours before Dev himself had bowed out. His hatchback had been blocked in the last time he’d gone out to check and he’d given up on going to his flat. He _did_ have a room in the manor now, after all, for late nights or early mornings, courtesy of Alfred-- the key to the room and the Manor itself had been given to him in a small box with Christmas wrapping paper.

“Not to whinge,” Dev says, pausing the game and standing to help Alfie gather candy wrappers from under the coffee table, “but the problem with having a bedroom tucked away by the ballroom is the number of guests who think it’s been left there for them to shag each other.”

“Good lord,” Alfie says for the second time, straightening from the chair he was examining a spot on. “I’d not even considered…wasn’t it locked?”

“I’ve a feeling Gotham as a whole is educated in lock-picking from infancy,” Dev says, putting a handful of trash into the rubbish bin. “It didn’t stop them anyway. At least four couples by my count, one man twice.”

“I’ll bleach the room,” Alfie says absently, frowning at the spot on the chair. “Do you know what’s happened here?”

“Nail polish,” Dev says.

“Stephanie Brown,” Alfie exclaims, as if shocked.

“Jason,” Dev corrects. “And Cass. Steph had already packed Damian off to bed.”

“Hmm,” the older man says. “I’ve never liked this chair anyway.”

“It’s one spot!” Dev protests, looking over at it. “It’s hardly ruined!”

“Would you care to take it?”

“No,” Dev grumbles. “But I’ll bloody well get that spot out. It’s a comfortable chair. Do you’ve acetone and hairspray?”

“I don’t think it can be done,” Alfie says a little archly, rubbing at the spot with one finger. “It’s quite dry.”

“Too many men in this house,” Dev says. “You’ve been crippled by testosterone. I can get it out.”

Alfie sighs.

“Will you require anything else?”

“Something bristly to scrub with. And a rag.”

Alfie comes back with the requested items after a few minutes, during which Dev saves and quits the game and folds a few blankets.

He’s kneeling at the chair, dabbing at the spreading spot, when he becomes aware someone is standing in the doorway. He looks up.

It’s Wayne and he looks well exhausted.

“Back from patrol?” Dev asks, returning his attention to the concerning smear of neon green on maroon upholstery. “In one piece?”

“Bruce,” a voice says from outside the room, “you promised _good_ snacks. This is health food.”

Selina Kyle is in the room before she realizes Dev is there.

“Hullo,” he says to her, spraying a bit of hairspray and dabbing with the cloth.

“Oh, hey,” she says, a little warily. She addresses Wayne. “I thought he was your doctor, not the maid.”

“What are you doing?” Wayne asks Dev instead.

Dev pulls out his mobile.

“Calling for aid,” he says, “because I might have gotten myself in over my bloody head.”

“You promised me a heist film,” Selina says to Wayne while Dev scrolls through his contacts. “It is the _only_ reason I behaved myself all night.”

“I’m going to fall asleep,” Wayne warns her, picking up the controller Dev had only recently put down. “I was at work in quarter meetings all day yesterday, then the gala, then patrol.”

“I’ll wake you up when Robert Redford is arrested,” Selina promises, while the mobile rings in Dev’s ear.

“They aren’t arrested in _The Hot Rock_ ,” Wayne says peevishly. “They get away with it.”

“You do love me,” Selina teases him. Dev wills Leena to answer the mobile. “Also, spoilers. God, Bruce, way to ruin the movie.”

“It’s older than me!” Wayne argues. “It’s past the statute of limitations for spoiling.”

Leena answers.

“Sidney,” she says quietly over the mobile, “shh, I’m exceedingly hung over.”

“Happy New Years,” Dev says. He glances over at the telly. Wayne has the film ready on the screen but hasn’t started it. “How did mum get nail polish out of Rani’s carpet that once?”

“Wild night?” Leena asks.

“I _told_ you Jason’s nails were painted,” Selina is hissing at Bruce in the background, whacking him across the chest. “I _told_ you.”

“Just helping with some cleaning,” Dev says. “For a mate. The most exciting my night got was eating hor d’oeuvres while playing a video game.”

“Right fancy,” Leena mumbles. “Someday, Sidney, we have to find you a woman. A good cuddler. Someone to tuck you in and be the little spoon so I don’t have to hear tragic shite like that lonely posh disaster.”

“Leena, the nail polish. How’d mum get it out.”

“She didn’t,” Dev hears her yawn. “She had daadaa come replace the carpet while we were at school.”

“Shite,” Dev says, staring at the growing smudge of green. “ _Shite_. She’d told da acetone and hairspray!”

“We’re not even going to discuss how sad it is that you remember that,” Leena says. “Because I need to sleep this off. No, Kenji, don’t unzip the tent, we’re eight hundred feet up. Here, piss in this cup instead.”

“Leena,” Dev exclaims, “Leena, are you hungover on a _mountain_?”

“Is there anywhere else to be hungover?” she snaps. After a pause she says, “No, we’re at base camp, I just don’t want Kenji to let the cold in. It’s bloody Baltic out there. Sidney, I love you but I’m going to puke Chilean liquor all over my husband if I don’t hang up right now.”

She hangs up.

“Shite,” Dev says again, glaring at the nail polish.

“Breakfast?” Alfie asks from the doorway.

“Bruce is asleep,” Selina says.

“Alfie,” Dev says, gathering the cleaning supplies. “It’s done for. I’ve only made it worse.”

“I didn’t care for it anyway,” Alfie says, taking the pile from him. “But it can be reupholstered if necessary.”

“We are not throwing out the red chair,” Wayne mumbles from the couch. “I’ve told you half a dozen times, Alfred, it’s comfortable.”

Dev raises an eyebrow at Alfie and the older man scowls.

“Alfred,” Timothy yells from the hall. “Is Dev with you? I walked in on some couple asleep in his room and I can’t find him anywhere.”

“That’s where the Ambassador went,” Alfie says, musing.

Timothy stands in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Oh, there you are,” he says to Dev. “It’s so early or late, I don’t even know. Did you want to-- oh, um, hi, Selina…I didn’t know you were–”

“Watching a movie while Bruce sleeps if everyone will shut up,” she replies cheerfully. “And I’m alright without breakfast, Alfred. Bruce and I stopped on the way back to the Manor.”

“Pho does not count as breakfast; it was dinner,” Wayne says irritably. “And I’m not asleep. I just have my eyes closed. Happy New Year’s, Tim.”

“You, too, Bruce,” Timothy replies, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Dev.”

“Hm?” Dev yawns and rubs his eyes.

“Wanna hike? I thought we could ring in the year.”

“In this cold?” Alfie interjects.

“Sure, mate,” Dev answers. “Sounds lovely.”

“If you return with frostbite,” Alfie warns, “I will not be responsible for your care.”

“I’m the sodding doctor around here,” Dev retorts. “If we’ve frostbite, I’ll perform the amputations myself.”

“Can Steph and Cass come?” Tim asks, looking at his phone.

“Out!” Wayne orders from the couch. “I am starting this movie before I actually fall asleep.”

Dev goes out with Timothy, Alfie right behind them.

“The more the merrier,” Dev says.

Timothy is tapping on his phone while they walk and holds out his coffee mug, saying, “hold this, please.”

Dev takes the mug and sips it.

“Timothy, this is right disgusting.”

“I’ll make some tea for you before you go,” Alfie offers, stepping past them into the kitchen.

“Go where?” Damian demands from around the hall.

“Go find your boots,” Dev tells the boy when he comes around the corner with Titus and Malcolm at his heels. “If we go now, we’ll be out early enough to see the stars before it gets light. Bring the dogs.”

Damian nods once and turns on his heel to run up the stairs.

“Ugh,” Timothy sighs, “why did you invite him.”

“Because I bloody love you and want the best for you,” Dev says. “And in case this is a revenge plot to kill me, I’ll need an ally. I could never take you by myself.”

“Damian couldn’t take me,” Timothy protests, frowning darkly.

“Ah, yes,” Dev agrees, “but you’ve brought along Steph and Cass, and they’ll side with me.”

“Shut up,” Timothy mutters, taking his coffee cup back. He stares at it and then at Dev.

“Aw, Dev,” he complains. “You _drank_ some. Now I can’t finish it because your germs are all over it.”

“You need water, mate,” Dev says, not feeling bad in the slightest.

Timothy’s grinning despite himself. “And it’s _not_ disgusting. You’re just mental.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, on second thought, this might have made a decent epilogue. but. it's not. heh.


	27. Brown, Stephanie 08/11 #05; Wayne, Timothy Drake. 07/19, #07 REP:01/15 LOC:C

When his mobile wakes him at a little after one in the morning, Dev has already slept for seven hours. He all but passed out on the bed in his flat at six, after spending the night before in a rare all-night gaming session with Timothy, getting through two morning consultations, and spending the whole afternoon catching up on work in his own lab in the hospital.

So he’s not sleepy, exactly, when he wakes, but he is momentarily confused by the text. It takes him a minute to realize what it means, and that it is actually important, actually instructions.

It’s from Cass. It’s an ambulance, the number 2, and the word ‘cave.’

Dev is dressed and sprinting down the stairs in under two minutes, his medkit on his shoulder. His mobile rings when he slides into the driver’s seat and he glances at it. It says unknown caller on the ID, and claims it is a blocked number. If his life wasn’t the kind of life it was, he’d ignore it, but his life is what it is. He accepts the call.

“Dev,” a woman’s voice says calmly, “this is Oracle.”

He hasn’t spent a lot of time with Barbara Gordon, but enough to know who she is and what she does. She’s seemed mildly resistant or reserved around him in the past few months and no one has been willing to push it, as far as he knows, him least of all.

“Hullo,” he says, tearing out of the car park with one hand on the steering wheel. He should have gone to the Manor after work. He should have gone and eaten an actual dinner instead of the cup of trail mix he ate at the kitchen sink with his eyes half-closed.

“You have Red Robin and Batgirl enroute to the Cave with hydrogen sulfide exposure,” she says. “Black Bat is with them until they arrive and then she’s returning to the field. Batman and Nightwing are pursuing Killer Croc and B requests that you remain available until everyone has reported in after capture.”

“Robin?” he asks, glancing around an intersection and running the red light when he’s certain it’s clear.

“Off-duty,” she says, and he hears relief in her voice. The tone of her voice changes abruptly to something more confiding, or informal, and she adds, “actually, if he comes down and tries to join them out there, could you stop him?”

“I am bloody certain I couldn’t keep him,” Dev says honestly. “Not without drugging him and I’ve even my doubts about that.”

“Drug him, then,” she says sharply. “O out.”

The call ends and he tosses the mobile on the passenger seat as he slams around a turn into the suburban stretch of wooded land leading out to the Manor. Maybe it’s just imagination, but he feels like he’s become a better driver the last few months.

He makes it to the Cave just as the Batmobile roars into the bay and skids to a stop on the roundabout grating. Black Bat leaps out of the driver’s seat, pulling a limp Batgirl behind her. Red Robin is climbing out the other side, coughing and wheezing.

Dev already has amyl nitrite capsules in his hand and hurries to help Red Robin, but the boy is taking his mask off, waving him away.

“Help Steph,” he gasps. “She was ahead of me.”

The boy seems okay on his feet so Dev crushes the capsule and shoves it into his hand, ordering, “inhale this, hold it right under your nostrils.”

Dev turns to Black Bat, who is half-dragging Batgirl with one arm around her shoulders, while Batgirl takes staggering steps toward the medical unit.

Dev intercepts them and scoops Batgirl off her feet and carries her the rest of the way. Her head lolls against his chest, her breathing shallow and labored. She fumbles at her mask and pulls it off and tries to gasp for air, but can’t.

Her eyes, when she looks up at him, are full of panic.

“It’s alright, you’ll be alright,” he says, setting her down on the gurney. He crushes the other capsule and holds in in front of her mouth, then he grabs the oxygen unit from the corner and straps the mask on her face. Her eyes are tightly shut and she’s clearly trying to calm herself, to let the mask work.

There’s the thrum of an engine and when he looks, the Batmobile is peeling back out of the Cave.

He takes her hand and holds it, reaches behind him for blood pressure cuff, glances across the gurney to make sure Timothy got himself to a chair. The boy is sitting with his head in his hands.

“Timothy, mate,” Dev calls, pulling at the cuff with his teeth to undo the Velcro. “Grab that other oxygen tank for yourself.”

Timothy nods and staggers up to get it.

Stephanie squeezes his hand as he slips the pressure cuff around her arm.

“You’ll be fine,” he says to her. “I’m checking your blood pressure and then I’ll start an IV. Your heart rate might pick up but it’ll help you breathe.”

Stephanie nods.

“Your pressure is a bit low,” he says, keeping up a stream of steady and calm narration. “You probably feel dizzy. If you need to vomit, pull the mask away. Don’t worry about me, I wash off.”

Across the unit, Timothy pukes into a rubbish bin he’s grabbed.

“You alright there, Tim?” Dev asks, glancing at him, tearing open a packet to place an IV that he’s snagged from a drawer.

“Yep,” Timothy says, wiping his mouth off and putting the oxygen mask back on.

“Steph,” Dev says, “I’m going to let go of your hand. I’m going to put an IV in your arm and add a bronchial medicine to the mask. I’ll be right here.”

“Okay,” she rasps. “I’m okay.”

But he still has to pull his hand away from hers.

He works as quickly as he can, starting a drip and then twisting off the cap of an albuterol capsule.

“What happened?” he asks Timothy, after the vasopressor drip is going. It’s good that Timothy seems to be faring a bit better.

“We were right behind him,” Timothy says, his voice rough, “he went into an old sewer main and I guess it had been sealed off for a while. Maybe the rain. We knew from the smell but it was too late, the gas just poured out and it didn’t seem to bother Croc. Steph was in front of me and got the brunt of it.”

“Did she lose consciousness?” Dev asks, adjusting the flow rate on the mask.

“For a few seconds,” Timothy says.

“I’m going to listen to your lungs, Steph,” Dev tells her, turning to get his stethoscope from the medkit on the counter. “Timothy, you’re next,” he warns.

“Dev, I’m gonna–” Stephanie’s moan ends in the sound of retching, and he spins to see her leaning over the side of the gurney with the mask held away from her face in one outstretched hand.

“It’s quite alright,” he says, grabbing a handful of absorbent pads and throwing them down on the floor. She rolls back onto her back and groans while he cleans the floor.

When he stands to listen to her lungs and heart, she says, “oh my god, my head.”

“So sorry, love,” he says. “Give it a few and the meds might help. I’ll grab an ice pack.”

He turns again to get one after listening to her lungs, relieved that they don’t sound like they’ve got fluid sitting in them.

“Tim,” she says, “Tim.”

Dev whirls, the ice pack just cracked into chilly life in his hand.

Timothy is on the floor, seizing.

“Steph,” Dev says, his voice even, “here’s the ice. Don’t worry about Timothy; I’ve got him.”

Kneeling next to the boy, he mutters, “ _Shite_ ,” under his breath.

“Dev, B wants a report,” the computer speakers crackle with Oracle’s voice across the room. “They’ve apprehended Croc.”

“I need you to get Alfred,” Dev shouts back at the computer. “I bloody need another set of hands.”

“Tim?” Steph says again from behind him.

“It’s alright, Steph,” Dev says, more calmly than he feels. “I just need someone with you while I take care of Timothy. Let me know if you feel worse, yeah?”

“Okay,” she says, and he glances up to see that she’s closed her eyes again. “Lights are really bright.”

Timothy’s body has stopped shaking and he’s gone stiff. Dev keeps a finger on his pulse and hunts about for the dropped mask.

He snatches it and holds it against the boy’s face, not bothering with the elastic.

“Kiran,” Alfie’s call carries across the Cave, sharp and clear. “I’ve been with Master Damian. What do you need me to do?”

“I need a laryngoscope from the kit and a size three Macintosh blade, that packet of tubing in the left drawer and the ventilator out.”

Dev looks back down at the boy.

“And toss me that Epi-pen,” he says, deciding on the spot. He shouldn’t have worked so slowly with Stephanie, he should have checked Timothy sooner, he should have had both of them on sodium nitrate and sodium thiosulfate at the same time.

Alfie pauses in gathering the other items to underhand pitch the Epi-pen to him, and Dev snatches it out of the air and jams it into Timothy’s leg.

“Size three?” Alfie asks.

“Three,” Dev confirms, adjusting the flow rate on the oxygen. Timothy is still and his heart rate is starting to pick up. “C’mon, Tim, breathe.”

“Tim,” Stephanie says.

“It’s alright,” Dev tells her automatically, turning to see her sitting halfway up. “I might have to intubate him but it’s alright. I need you to relax.”

“What the hell, Dev?” Steph wheezes. “I can’t–”

“Lie back, close your eyes, count to a thousand,” he says firmly. “Right now.”

She flops back on the gurney and closes her eyes.

Alfie kneels on the other side of Timothy with a tray of everything Dev asked for, the ventilator plugged in and a foot away from them.

Dev picks up the Macintosh blade and Timothy sucks in a breath and his body shudders. His eyes flutter open and he looks confused, but he takes another breath.

“Hold on, mate,” Dev says calmly, dropping the Macintosh blade out of Timothy’s line of sight but keeping his hand on it. “That panic you feel is just the drugs. Just breathe. It’ll wear off in a bit.”

Timothy nods, his eyes locked on Dev.

“Lungs,” he wheezes.

“I know,” Dev replies, “I’m going to give you a bronchodilator and start an IV right here on the floor, right? You’re going to be fine. And you know I’d sodding tell you if you weren’t.”

Alfie brings him things from the counter as he calls them out and by the time Dick and Cass return, they’ve moved Timothy to a collapsible gurney from the closet. Steph has fallen asleep with the mask still on and Timothy is close.

Dev switches the ventilator off, unused.

He sits, monitoring heart and blood pressure and oxygen levels long after Wayne returns and checks on them. He sits while Wayne works at the computer, through the cup of tea Alfie brings him.

“They’re out of the woods, mate,” Dev says to Wayne when he realizes the other man has just been sitting at the computer without typing for a while. “If you need to sleep.”

“Hn,” Wayne says. He stands and walks over to them, looks at them both, and then goes to the elevator with a weary droop to his shoulders.

Dev is grateful for the early sleep he got. He feels alert now, even late into the morning.

Timothy wakes first, rolling over with a moan.

“I hate sewers,” is the first thing he says.

Dev stands and gets a glass of water for him. Timothy sits up to sip it.

“How’s Steph?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. “My head aches but she seemed like she was having a rough time.”

“Steph’s fine,” Dev says, crossing his arms and watching as Timothy drains the glass of water. “And you’re probably still exhausted. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m only sleeping because I want to,” Timothy retorts, “and not because you told me to.”

“I don’t care,” Dev exclaims, “Just sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“You okay?” Timothy mumbles, his eyes already closed again.

“Brilliant,” Dev says with a yawn. And he is, now, deeply and profoundly relieved. It will catch up to him later, he’s sure, but for now he’s just relieved.

“How bad was it?” Timothy asks. “My memory is a little fuzzy.”

“Nothing at all,” Dev says with a shrug. “Just glad you’re alright.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Timothy says, rolling over and cracking one eye open to look at him.

“I know,” Dev says. “And you’re shite at breathing sometimes, but we make it work.”

Timothy grins, sleepy and satisfied.

“I knew it was bad because you weren’t swearing,” Timothy says slowly and then he’s asleep.

Dev looks down at his shoes and scuffs the tread of one toe on the concrete.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters.

He stays the whole day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late, haha.


	28. w/alfie :) 18 feb. vernon state park.

The wind whips across the surface of the frozen lake and it doesn’t bother Dev in the least. He stands on the sandy bank littered with broken clam shells and bits of rock while a brush fire blazes at his side.

He’s unbuttoned his parka because of the heat from the fire and he’s sipping from a mug of tea while he stares out across the white expanse of Lake Vernon.

A mountain to the west casts half the lake in shadow and sunlight floods the drifting clouds in hazy silver light; it glitters on the snow drifts on the far side of the lake.

The wind has kept the shore clear but the snow climbs to a depth of a foot behind him in the woods and up the slope to the lake house. There’s a path stomped through the snow, edged by spidery tracks from the cut branches and dead vines dragged from the driveway down to the circle he’d marked for a fire.

Dev inhales deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs and sting his throat. It’s a delicious kind of sting, sharp and bracing. He sips the tea again and watches a hawk soar in predatory circles above the wooded hills to the north.

It dives and he turns to check the fire. The brush hissed with the steam of thawing ice when first lit, but was dead and dry beneath the layer of frost and it’s turning quickly to smoky reddened ash. The wind shifts and the smoke blows across the lake, curling in aimless tendrils and carrying bits of live embers that sizzle and die on the air. There’s a thin layer of soot forming on the lake surface from the past five times the wind has pushed the smoke this way.

He stands for another fifteen minutes and finishes the tea, waits until the fire has fallen in on itself to a low, smoldering pile. Then he takes a bucket he’d brought down from the house and dumps water on the remnants, stepping back as it hisses and spits out angry, dying billows of acrid smoke. With his hiking boot, he kicks sand over the charcoal and stomps it down.

Then he carries the mug and the bucket back up the hill to the lake house. The triangle roof of the cabin is cut at steep angles and the whole front of the house is tall window panes overlooking the lake, faintly green with the layers of pine tree residue and forest dirt.

Dev climbs the steps to the deck on the side of the cabin and leaves the bucket on the weathered planking. He keeps the mug in one hand while he unties his boots with the other and shoves them off, first boot toe pushing on ankle, then sock on cuff for the other. He goes inside without them and hangs his coat on a hook.

The cabin’s large open living room is warm and lit by the sunlight pouring through the front, tinted just barely with olive and gray from the ice and sap on the windows. A fire roars in the massive stone hearth and Max Richter’s _24 Postcards in Full Colour_ wafts down from the old, mounted speakers hung beneath the loft railing and paneled in orange-hued wood.

He finds Alfie in the kitchen, kneeling in an apron and scrubbing at the bottom of a cold oven.

“I don’t know what the previous renters used this for,” he observes when Dev stands at the sink to wash the mug, “but it certainly was not any food that I am aware of.”

Dev crouches next to him and looks at the baked on puddle of black.

“Is it crayon?” he asks, scraping a finger across it when Alfie sits back. “Or clay?”

“Hm,” Alfie looks at the steel wool in his hand and sniffs it. “Perhaps clay. That does rather make me feel better.”

“Let me have a go,” Dev offers, holding a hand out for the wool.

“For a repeat of the red chair?” Alfie asks dryly, but he hands it over anyway.

“Oi,” Dev protests. “I was laboring with faulty data. It was a genuine effort.”

“Well, I won’t argue,” Alfie says, standing and wiping his hands on his apron. “I’ve been at it for ten minutes now and it’s as fast as it was when I began.”

“I’ve a bone drill,” Dev says, scraping the wool on the spot and pressing hard as he drags it around the edges. “If all else fails.”

“Hm,” Alfie replies. “That might be worth a try. I’d rather like to avoid mysterious fumes. How was the brush fire?”

“Brilliant fun,” Dev replies, staring with a frown at the ineffectual wool. “I don’t know that I’ll ever tire of burning or blowing up things.”

“Spoken like a gentleman,” Alfie replies. “It’s a condition of our rougher sex, this predisposition to arson.”

“I feel obligated to tell you that sounds bloody well sexist,” Dev says.

“Goodness gracious,” Alfie exclaims. “Of course it is. But it is the prerogative of the old to say unfashionable things, and you ought to thank me for keeping the way clear for you. You aren’t far behind me, you know.”

Dev turns from the oven to try to glare at the older man but Alfie’s expression is so amused he can’t manage it and he laughs.

“The only time I feel old,” he says, giving up on the steel wool, “is when I help Steph with her homework.”

“Kiran, no one _feels_ old until it’s too late. And I’d kindly remind you that the years between you and myself are fewer than the number between you and Master Timothy.”

“Shite,” Dev says, standing and dropping the wool by the sink. Alfie is leaning against the counter with a cup of tea, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. Dev leans next to him, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Honestly?” he asks. Alfie nods.

“Shite,” he says again. “I’m nearly elderly.”

“Thank you,” Alfie says flatly, but when Dev glances over the older man’s lips are pressed in a quiet and mirthful smile.

“I’ll go get that bone drill, then,” he says. “When do you need the oven?”

“I’d like to finish the cake before the Kents arrive,” Alfie says, glancing up at the kitchen clock. “Good lord, is that time correct?”

Dev looks at it and then slides his mobile out of his pocket.

“No, it’s off an hour. I’ll fix it.”

He reaches up and snags the clock off the wall. A piece of paper flutters down to the floor and Alfie bends to pick it up while Dev fiddles with the small gears to adjust the arms. When he looks at Alfie, his brow furrows in concern.

Alfie’s gone a bit pale and he stands looking over the paper.

“I wonder how many renters or maids have put this back,” he muses, his expression still strained as he hands the paper to Dev. “We might as well continue the tradition.”

It’s faded yellow with age and the cursive scrawl in black ink is a mere household note, an ordinary memo, _Thomas, set ahead for next season. -Martha._

“She did always have a mind for details,” Alfie says absently, turning to look out the windows. “What a lovely day it’s turned out to be.”

“Mm,” Dev agrees, hanging the clock back on the wall with the note tucked against the battery casing.

“I used to find her notes about the manor,” Alfie says. “I collected and saved them. They’re in a box in a storage closet in the west hall. I’ve never been able to quite decide what to do with them, but it seems a shame to burn them or throw them away. How’s your mother?”

The question catches Dev off-guard and he blinks. He watches the clouds move across the sky outside for a moment.

“I don’t bloody know,” he says finally. “Leena said she’d ring when she went home, but she hasn’t yet. It’s likely to not be long.”

“How are you doing?” Alfie asks, looking over at him.

“I don’t know,” Dev says again. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to sodding feel.”

“Whatever you feel,” Alfie says with a slight shrug. “It’s perfectly alright. I’m sorry to bring it up, only I haven’t asked in some time. Do you still want to try that drill on my oven?”

Dev nods and goes out to get it, slipping his boots on without tying them and jogging down to the car in the paved lot they’d shoveled clear. He’s left his coat inside and he shivers while he digs in the medkit for the drill.

Back inside, he puts a mask on and Alfie leaves the kitchen while he works. The hard substance comes off in shaving, curling flecks at first and then splinters into shards.

“I think this was glass,” Dev calls when he shuts the drill off and pulls the mask from his face.

Alfie returns and helps clean up the displaced pieces, then scrubs with the steel wool again at the bared spot while Dev repacks the drill.

“Thank you for coming today, Kiran,” Alfie says, standing to rinse the steel wool. “You’ve been wonderful company.”

Dev shrugs.

“Between you and Lake Vernon,” Dev says, “this has been one of the best days I’ve had in quite some time.”

“Even though I’ve worked you to the bone?” Alfie asks, looking around the cabin they’ve spent the day cleaning.

“Bloody hell, yes,” Dev exclaims.

“To be perfectly honest,” Alfie says, beginning to pull baking supplies out of paper bags at the end of the counter, “when Master Kent proposed a birthday party here and said Master Bruce had mentioned the house, I was rather surprised.”

“Difficult memories?” Dev asks, guessing at the need for eggs they’d brought and getting them out of the fridge.

Alfie pauses in opening a bag of flour.

“No,” he says slowly, “no, rather that he remembered it at all. They didn’t come here often. The lake, I think, made Mrs. Wayne nervous when Master Bruce was small. Her brother had had a scare in a lake, I believe. Whatever the reason, they weren’t here much. We’ve only lent it occasionally, just enough to maintain the place. I was quite certain he’d forgotten it altogether.

“If it hadn’t been for your enthusiasm, I doubt I would have agreed.”

“Well, bloody hell, but that puts a lot of pressure on me,” Dev says. “I’m just fond of the park. When Clark brought it up, all I’d bloody said was that I liked to hike here.”

“I think it will be lovely,” Alfie counters. “Just the thing, now that we’re here and I see it again.”

“I should warn you,” Dev says, “I’m not looking forward to tomorrow nearly as much as I looked forward to today.”

“That’s because you and Master Bruce suffer from the same inability to practice the habit of celebration,” Alfie says, beating eggs and oil together in a bowl. “A condition I am growing to appreciate Master Kent’s assistance in remedying.”

“What rot,” Dev says with a laugh. “I’ve not been formerly diagnosed. Leave off with your holistic medicines.”

“This from the man who convinced Master Bruce to try ‘nature therapy,’” Alfie replies, spooning sugar into the bowl and carefully studying the texture as he stirs. “You’ve taken your own legs out from beneath you, my boy.”

“Nature therapy,” Dev says, “is a seriously regarded field.”

“As is the psychological benefit of familial connections and social interactions,” Alfie says archly. “You’re only bothered because I reduced the concept to layman’s terms and dared to call it a _celebration_.”

Dev grumbles.

“Is there anything else I can do?” he asks a moment later. “Other than just stand about.”

Alfie doesn’t look up from the flour he’s leveling with a knife.

“There’s a crate of linens in the upstairs hall that I’d not gotten around to putting on the beds.”

“Consider it done,” Dev says. He stops at the hearth first to poke at the fire and add another log. “Who’s arriving tonight, then?”

“Master Jason and the elder Kents,” Alfie calls from the kitchen. “The others come in the morning. Will you want to return to the city tonight?

“Absolutely not,” Dev says. “I’m avoiding it for as long as I possibly can. I might even go on a hike tonight.”

“Where do you hike, anyway?” Alfie asks, still calling across the room. “I meant to ask.”

“Where don’t I sodding hike would be an easier question,” Dev replies, staring the flames as they wrap around the new log. “I hike all over Vernon. I’ve been on the shore of the lake just below before, only I didn’t know who owned the house.”

“You’ll have to show me,” Alfie says. “I don’t get out as much as I should.”

“I’d love to,” says Dev, feeling a little proud and mildly possessive of the state park. “I’m off to wrestle with fitted sheets. Wish me luck.”

“Bonam Fortunam!” Alfie shouts after him as he climbs the stairs.

They’re sitting in front of the fire that evening with cups of tea, Alfie reading an older mystery novel and Dev reading over published notes from a neurosurgery conference in Switzerland while they occasionally comment to each other, when they hear a car pull into the drive.

Alfie stands first and closes his book; Dev sits for another few seconds to finish a paragraph, then he joins him at the door.

Jason is climbing out from the driver’s seat in a t-shirt and jeans, without a coat, and shivering.

“It’s fricking cold!” he yells up at them, while Martha Kent opens the passenger door and Jonathan Kent emerges from the back.

“It is February,” Alfie says to Jason as he and Dev go down the stairs of the deck. The older man embraces the boy, who returns the hug enthusiastically.

Jonathan is popping the boot of the car and Dev goes to help with bags.

“How was your flight?” Alfie asks them.

“Uneventful,” Martha replies, “as a good flight should be.”

They go into the lake house together and Jason stands in front of the fire with his arms stretched out to the heat.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” Alfie is saying to the Kents as he and Martha walk to the kitchen. “Are you hungry at all?”

Dev leads Jonathan up the stairs with the few small bags to a room set aside for them, then carries the worn and patched duffel down the hall to a room for Jason.

Alfie already has dinner on the table when he goes back down the stairs.

After working all day, Dev should be hungry, but he’s not particularly. It’s not even nerves about tomorrow as much as it is the even keel of a blissfully wonderful day carrying over into an overall calm.

He sits down and Jason takes the seat next to him.

“Alfred says you’re going on a hike in the dark,” the boy says. “So it was nice knowing you. I’ll remember you when you’ve frozen to death and been eaten by frigging bears.”

“Didn’t he tell you?” Dev asks in reply. “I’m dragging you along.”

“For therapy?” Jason asks with a smirk.

“No, mate,” Dev says. “For safety. So I can throw your arse to the bears while I run.”

“And fall into the gorram lake so we both die,” Jason says gleefully. “Sounds like a plan.

Dev lowers his voice and leans in to add, “Also, l’ve missed swearing at someone who can match me, and I won’t make Mrs. Kent suffer.”

“You’re on,” Jason retorts with a grin. “Cussing in the wintery woods at midnight. My life goal.”

“I hope you two aren’t planning anything foolish,” Martha says from across the table. “My mother always said whispers were the devil’s hiding place.”

Dev can’t tell if he should feel chastised or not and then he sees her smile. Jason is already laughing. The boy seems far more open and at ease than the last time Dev saw him and it’s rather nice.

“Oh,” Jason says casually, “Dev’s just making plans to feed me to wild animals and swear while doing it.”

“Hm,” Jonathan says, “like Joseph’s brothers.”

Alfie chuckles.

“Like the wilderness murderer Tim tried to warn us he was,” Jason says, giving Dev a sidelong grin.

“Have I murdered Timothy?” Dev exclaims. “Have I not always brought him back alive?”

“You brought _me_ back alive,” Jason says. “And that doesn’t prove much in your defense. Maybe you’ve been using him for practice.”

Dev nearly spits water on the table laughing.

“I don’t know if it’s a good–” Jonathan starts to say, but Martha pats his arm consolingly.

“It’s alright, Jon, they need humor to cope. Let them be morbid for a bit.”

“Fuck you,” Dev mouths at Jason while Alfie holds a napkin to his face to hide his own laughter.

“For practice,” the older man mutters after a moment. “As if you needed any extra.”


	29. wayne turns 40! it's brilliant. 19 feb. vernon state park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter is a day late and to make t up to you it is super super long, sorrynotsorry

The color coded and densely packed spreadsheet on the piece of paper in his hand reminds Dev of the general OR schedule he gets as a PDF in his hospital inbox every week. But it isn’t an OR schedule; it’s a party plan. Stephanie Brown is handing them out with a smug smile after informing the crowd lounging around the cabin eating breakfast that Alfred had put her in charge of the day’s activities, lest there be a failure to “engage in the outdoors.”

Dev should appreciate it but frankly it terrifies him.

“When did you even find time to do this?” Timothy is asking, obviously harboring similar feelings.

“It is _amazing_ what you can accomplish when you are avoiding homework,” Steph tells him.

Dev looks around the room. Wayne is scanning the paper with a frown; it is headed “BRUCE’S 40th!!!” followed by balloons and hearts and party hats and a bat Steph is claiming Cass sneaked onto the paper right before printing.

“This is really good work,” Wayne says without looking up, as if considering it seriously. And apparently he is.

Steph beams.

“Thank you,” she says demurely. “I try.”

Dev reads over the itinerary, relaxing a little when he realizes that it is not as densely packed as he’d first thought, but that every minute has been accounted for, including large blocks of downtime indicated by pale violet.

The categories are general things like, _Snowball Fight_ , and _Hot Cocoa at Fire_ , and _Lunch and Cake_ , which seem self-explanatory, but Steph is already going around the room again with additional papers that are, he sees once they are in his hands, an outline of the rules of engagement for the snowball fight. There are subheadings down to lowercase Roman numerals.

Dev thinks she’s been taking cues from at least one professor but he chooses not to say so. He’s not a total arse.

“Steph,” Jason whines, “this is supposed to be fun. I’m sick of outlines.”

Cass is sitting next to him and leans over to press a finger against his lips. Startled, he stops speaking.

“It is fun,” she says, “when we follow rules.”

Dev does not miss the pleading glances Dick, Jason, and Timothy all cast toward Wayne.

But Wayne is reading the paper intently with a pleased half-smile on his face. Steph is still beaming and when she ducks down to get something else out of her backpack, she stands with a party hat on her head. She raises an eyebrow at Dev.

“Oh, bollocks,” he sighs. “For breakfast. But I pitch it in the fire at 9 on the dot.”

“Do you have another one, Steph?” Kent asks.

“I have enough for everyone,” Steph answers, handing Dev and Kent hats.

“I am not wearing one,” Damian announces angrily.

“Yes, you are,” Steph says, “and I’ll take you to Raouche for lunch next week.”

Dev watches as Damian allows her to put a hat on his head and adjust the elastic string under his chin, while he scowls with his arms stiff at his sides.

“I won’t force the hats on anyone else,” she announces to the room. “Snowball War teams are on the back.”

Dev turns the paper over.

_Brucedad & Selina_

_Alfred <3 & Zombie Boy_

_Co-Parent Dickie & Baby Dami_

_Cassie My Love & The Best Steph_

_Nerdface & The Doctor_

_Superclark & Pulitzer-Prize Winning Lois_

“Is Selina still coming?” Kent asks, frowning at the list. “Lois isn’t. There was an emergency appointment of a new Argentinian ambassador and she flew out last night.”

“Selina is coming,” Wayne replies without looking up. “She’ll be late but she’ll be here.”

“I’ll take Lois’ spot,” Jonathan Kent speaks up.

“Pa, I don’t-”

“What?” Jonathan interrupts with a rakish grin. “You think your old man is too far gone to hold his own in a snowball fight? Alfred is gonna be out there.”

“But-”

Jonathan raises his voice and calls out, “Clark cried the first time he watched _Titanic_.”

“Ma!” Kent pleads. Martha shrugs at him from the threshold of the kitchen.

“Another?” Jonathan challenges.

Next to him, Dev sees Kent’s shoulders sag.

“No. Fine, take Lois’ spot. I don’t know why we even invited you.”

Jonathan nods smugly.

When Dev looks over, Wayne is reading over the schedule again but there’s a barely suppressed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m going to go over these rules really quick for those of you refusing to read,” Steph says, shifting the attention in the room, “but it’s not my fault if you go out on a technicality.”

Timothy grumbles.

“No powers, no rocks in snowballs, no face shots, no low blows, five hits and you’re out and leave your partner on his own. Last man standing or fewest hits after an hour,” Steph rattles off the headings on the paper.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Wayne calls and the door opens.

Selina Kyle steps in, wearing a hooded black coat and high heeled boots. She looks around the crowded room and then her eyes settle on Dev.

“Nice hat,” she says.

“Sod off,” he replies automatically, defensively, before he can stop himself. She laughs, a little coldly, and then shuts the door behind her and joins Wayne by the fireplace.

“Happy birthday,” she tells him, kissing Wayne’s cheek. Dev notes with a degree of amusement that every youth in the room turns away or looks at the floor, but Jason and Dick gape openly with wide grins.

“Stop staring,” Wayne crossly orders the older boys. “Close your mouths.”

“Breakfast, Miss Kyle?” Alfred offers from across the living room, as she takes the papers from Wayne and reads over them.

“No, thanks,” she says, glancing up briefly. “I ate on the way.”

The morning moves on and Dev triumphantly burns the party hat in the fire at 9:01, ignoring Steph’s dirty glare.

“I have served my time,” he tells her as it goes up in smoke. “I don’t want to hear another bloody word about it.”

The snowball fight is the first thing on the schedule after breakfast and shortly after burning the hat, Dev stands at the edge of the woods on the east slope with Timothy while the others stand in groups and strategize.

Cass walks by in all white, her hair tucked beneath a white balaclava. She turns to stick her tongue out at him and then pulls the mask up to cover everything except her eyes. He sticks his tongue out right back and then turns to see Selina watching him with an amused smirk. She whispers something to Wayne, who laughs while pulling his gloves on, and Dev scuffs his boot in the snow and glares at the trees.

“We should slaughter them all,” he says to Timothy.

The boy looks startled and then rallies and surveys the group, commenting quietly, “What violence you mere men carry in your hearts.”

“Are you not a mere man yourself, mate?” Dev asks him, glancing over.

The boy studies the sky and the canopy of the trees and then says, with a completely serious expression, “I do not age. I’m the King of the Fae lands.”

Dev snorts and then sighs in laughter at Timothy’s haughty stare.

“Alright, mate. Fae and Man. I’d say we have a fair shot.”

Timothy doesn’t reply to this, but fifteen minutes into the hour when neither of them have taken a hit because of Timothy’s arm and Dev’s memory of the landscape around the trails, Dev sits back against a fallen log and makes snowballs while Timothy exclaims, “I thought this was like a mercy pairing, no offense, but holy shit, Dev. We’re on fire.”

“You learn our ways so quickly, my liege. I will forgive the offense.”

Timothy snickers and then looks around Dev at the snowball pile.

“Honestly, though, how do you make good snowballs so fast?”

Dev shrugs.

“I’ve always had bloody good hands.”

Their success is short-lived, however. Jonathan Kent bows out a minute later after Martha Kent yells at him from the deck for a theatrical dive into a snowbank. Right after he stalks by them, complaining loudly, Dev sees Steph and Cass in a thicket of bushes. He glances at Timothy and then grabs a snowball, and stands. Two steps forward, there’s a _thwack_ on his leg.

He looks down and shouts in surprise.

Cass is on her back in the snow almost immediately beneath him, almost completely camouflaged in her white snow gear. He can see the mirth in her eyes before she rolls over and takes off.

He looks up.

Steph is still in the thicket giving him the middle finger and Cass is already gone.

“Bloody hell,” Dev says, sitting down with Timothy again.

“Shh,” Timothy says, jerking Dev’s arm to pull him closer to the ground. “Look.”

In the other direction, Alfie is standing in his dark peacoat and knit cap, back to back with Jason in his faded ski jacket and combat boots. They are talking to each other, Jason’s face lit with devious delight. Alfie’s small, tight smile is worlds more unsettling to Dev, however.

He waits with Timothy, barely breathing.

Jason says something he cannot hear and Alfie nods; Jason leaves him and goes sliding down the hill.

Timothy nods at Dev.

Dev stands to throw a snowball at Alfie but the older man turns and looks at him. He is suddenly aware that Damian and Dick are now attacking them from behind, Timothy fielding the assault. But Dev is just staring at Alfie.

And Dev sees it in the man’s face, that stern frown, that if the snowball leaves his hand in Alfie’s direction he’s going to be served Lipton for a week at least. He hurls it wildly to the right instead, in the general direction of Dick and Damian, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Alfie strolling across the hill like he’s on a Sunday walk.

Dev sits down against the log.

“That little shit,” Timothy mutters, dropping back to the ground next to him. “He’s hit me right in the neck three times now. I’m tempted to just throw one right in his face and go out that way.”

“Do it,” Dev says, handing him a snowball.

“Really?” Timothy asks, eyes wide.

“It’s just a snowball, mate. He’ll live. And I’ll lie low, hide until it’s over.”

“You don’t have to stop just because I do.”

“I’m a coward, Timothy. I know my limits. I’m not ashamed to hide.”

“You aren’t a coward. But I’m gonna hit him right in the mouth.”

Timothy takes a deep breath and Dev puts a hand on his arm.

“It was an honor to serve in the campaign with you, my Fae Liege.”

“Will you come visit me?” Timothy asks, grinning, “In Fairy, when the war is over?

“Elfhame’s a dark and dangerous place for mortal men,” Dev answers, “but I’ll make the trip if they’ve not closed the portal. Good luck.”

Timothy stands and shouts, “Damian!”

Dev can’t see the blow but he hears it land with a wet smack and a half second later, Steph yells, “you’re out, Tim!”

Timothy climbs over the fallen log and Dev looks at the pile of snowballs at his side. When he turns, Wayne is sitting next to him.

“Bloody hell!” he yelps. He drops his voice to a harsh whisper, “Steph said no powers.”

“It’s not a power,” Wayne replies with a frown. “Selina left me.”

“Shite, mate, I’m so sor-”

Wayne raises an eyebrow and Dev can feel his whole face flush red.

“The game, Dev. She went back up to the house. I’m here to propose an alliance. Tim says you know these woods.”

“I might,” Dev mumbles, packing another snowball.

“Well?” Wayne looks at him. “Where do we go next? Damian and Dick are closing in.”

Dev scans the woods.

“There’s a hollow behind that ridge,” he says.

“On my count,” Wayne says, climbing into a crouch. “I’ll give us some cover.”

They sprint across the hill together and drop to the other side of the embankment. What Dev lacks in speed he makes up for in the length of his stride and he feels fairly confident that for the short distance, at least, he’s held his own.

“Alfred and Jason at my ten,” Wayne says as soon as Dev starts making snowballs.

“Hold up!” Kent’s voice rings across the snowy slope. “I lost my glasses.”

Wayne turns his head to yell, “You don’t even need them!”

“I just got these frames!” Kent shouts back. “I _like_them!”

Wayne growls and stands to go help hunt.

“Stay here,” he tells Dev, “in case it’s a trap.”

Dev builds a fairly large pile of snowballs while listening to them pace back and forth with slow steps.

“How did you lose them?” Wayne is asking.

“I turned my head too fast. I’m not used to wearing them on the move.”

“I could just buy you another pair.”

“Aw, shucks, don’t be silly. That’d be a waste of money.”

“It’s not going to leave me destitute. How much were they?”

“I don’t know. They were a gift from Lois.”

“Oh. Hn.”

“Ah! Found ‘em,” Kent exclaims. “Thanks for looking.”

“Hn,” Wayne growls in reply. He rejoins Dev.

“We’re good to go!” Kent yells.

“Damn, Dev,” Wayne says, glancing at the pile of snowballs. “How many did you make?”

Dev had been listening more than paying attention to what he was doing and the pile between them is close to two dozen snowballs.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“How the hell are you making them so fast?”

Wayne’s expression is genuinely shocked and Dev maybe should feel proud but he mostly just feels suddenly embarrassed.

“Are you working without gloves?”

Dev looks down at his bare hands. His gloves are sitting in his lap.

“The cold doesn’t bother me,” he shrugs, reaching to grab another handful of snow.

There are five soft thuds against his chest and arm.

He looks over, startled and angry.

Wayne has another snowball in his hand already.

“What the bloody fuck was that?” Dev demands. “I thought we had an alliance, you traitor.”

“A mercy killing,” Wayne replies calmly. “Go warm up your hands.”

Dev grumbles and climbs to his feet.

“I’m out,” he says to no one in particular as he begins the climb back up to the house.

“Yippie ki-yay, lint lickers!” he hears Jason shout behind him, and he turns to see the boy step out from behind a tree only to be pelted by Kent and Wayne before he can even throw a snowball.

“Frick,” Jason mutters, then he yells, “You’re on your own, Alfred!”

Jason begins trudging after Dev and Dev waits for him. They fall in step with each other.

“That was a sodding kamikaze effort,” Dev says. “You doing alright, mate?”

“I’m cold,” Jason grumbles. A second later, he mutters as if annoyed, “and my arms are tired.”

“It won’t be forever,” Dev says, clapping him on the back.

Jason nods and they go up onto the deck together, stamping snow off their boots before untying them and going in.

Inside, Tim and Jonathan are talking and playing chess at the table and Martha is working in the kitchen, talking to Selina. Dev peels his coat off and goes straight to the fireplace and lies down on the floor on his stomach. After the adrenaline of the snowball fight is wearing off, however artificially induced he knows it to be, he’s becoming aware of muscles that ache from dragging brushwood and forest debris the day before.

Jason joins him a moment later with a book, sitting on the low stone hearth between Dev and the fire. Dev looks long enough to register what Jason is doing and then closes his eyes.

A moment later, there’s a flick on his ear. He brushes it away with a growl and turns his head. His other ear is flicked and he squeezes his eyes more tightly shut in protest.

“Sod off, Zombie Boy,” he mutters and he hears Jason exclaim, “What the frick did I do?” from several feet away.

Dev opens his eyes. Jason has moved to an armchair and Timothy is leaning over him with a grin.

“Hey. Martha made hot chocolate. Alfred won the snowball fight. Zero hits.”

Dev sits up and rubs his eyes.

“That was fast,” he says, yawning.

Timothy laughs.

“Dev, you’ve been out for almost an hour. Jason used your back as a foot rest for a while, by the way.”

“You’re good furniture,” Jason says lightly, still engrossed in his book.

“Would you like some of the honeyed brew of Fae-land?” Timothy offers, sitting on the stone while Dev blinks sleepily, still processing the time change.

“Mead?” he asks, confused.

“Hot chocolate,” Timothy says, frowning. “I guess that did sound like mead.”

“Why not?” Dev returns, standing and stretching. His back aches and he’s tempted to glare at Jason, but then he remembers Alfie warning him that he’d feel old once it was too late and it makes him scowl at the floor instead.

He follows Timothy to the kitchen where Alfie and Martha are chatting near a counter full of mugs.

“I heard you won the game,” Dev says to Alfie as he takes a mug and thanks Martha.

“I did,” Alfie says.

“By witchcraft,” Timothy says accusingly. “That’s what Steph said, anyway.”

“The power of influence, Master Timothy, is often foreign to those who do not know how to wield it,” Alfie answers.

“Steph not wield influence?” Dev exclaims, holding the warm mug in both hands. “Alfie. Did you not see me standing with a purple party hat on my head in room full of sodding adults this morning?”

“I cannot speak for her sway over the weaker minded,” Alfie says archly, winking at Timothy.

Dev sputters helplessly.

“Oh, hush, Alfred,” Martha says with a laugh. “Clark wore a hat, too, Sidney. Don’t you worry yourself about it. He’s just on a power trip after that silly war.”

“Don’t mock my sacrifice!” Jason shouts from the living room. “My comrades and I didn’t perish for _silly_.”

“It is pretty impressive that he outlasted Bruce and Clark,” Timothy says in Alfie’s defense.

But Dev is staring at Martha Kent, who doesn’t seem to notice his startled gaze.

“I’m going to go get some air,” he says, turning abruptly. He steps out onto the deck without his coat, but does bother to slip his boots on before standing at the railing overlooking the slope to the lake.

He holds the hot chocolate mug and surveys the landscape, watching as Kent, Wayne, and Selina talk on the lake shore below; Steph, Cass, Dick, and Damian are sledding on the hill beneath the curved drive to the house, taking turns with a blue plastic sled.

The door behind him opens and Martha Kent steps out, wrapped in a pink, brushed wool coat. She stands next to him at the railing.

“I hope we didn’t upset you,” she says gently.

Dev shakes his head and sips the hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t upset,” he says. “Just surprised.”

“By Alfred?” she asks, confused.

“You called me Sidney,” he says, watching Steph and Cass hurtle down the hillside, laughing. “I’d bloody forgotten I mentioned it at Thanksgiving.”

“I don’t have to if it bothers you,” Martha replies. “Do you prefer Dev or Kiran?”

“No,” he says, looking over and down at her. “You don’t have to stop. I’m not miffed. It just felt like home for a moment. The good parts.”

Martha smiles and Dev sips his hot chocolate again, turns his head to see Dick and Damian as they overshoot the turn on the hill.

The sled flies off the bank and soars through the air over the surface of the lake, their delighted cries turning into Dick’s sharp yell and Damian’s shriek.

“ _Shite_ ,” Dev exclaims, leaving his hot chocolate on the railing and taking off at a run down the stairs just as the crack of the thin ice breaking resounds across the valley.

“Clark!” Martha shouts from the deck as Dev tears down the hillside. He’s not even sure what he’ll do when he gets there, only that he can’t stand still and not run.

He reaches the bank just in time to see Kent literally hurl Dick across the lake and into Wayne’s arms. Wayne staggers back under the weight and then sets Dick on the sand, while the young man coughs and drips icy water.

Kent has gone back under for Damian but isn’t under for more than a second or before he’s carrying the boy to the shore, both of them soaked.

“Take him to the house,” Wayne snaps and Kent flies up the hill without slowing. Steph and Cass are standing on the embankment with their mouths hanging open.

“Get my medkit!” Dev shouts to Steph. “The car!”

She nods and runs.

Dev reaches the huddle on the beach as Wayne is unzipping Dick’s soaked coat and pulling it off him, wrapping his own coat around Dick’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Dick is saying, his teeth chattering. “I’m fine, I barely went under. Damian…”

Wayne looks up at Dev.

“I can get him to the house. Go check on Damian.”

Dev nods and runs back down the beach and up the hill. When he glances back, Selina and Wayne are getting Dick to his feet.

Steph meets him at the deck stairs with the kit, grunting, “what the hell do you have in here?”

“Everything,” he answers, taking it and sprinting up the steps. His legs are killing him but he ignores it.

Inside, Damian has already been stripped down to underwear by Alfie and wrapped in blankets in front of the fire. His wet clothes are steaming on the hearth and his whole body is shivering.

Dev grabs his stethoscope and Alfie steps back while he kneels in front of the boy.

He listens to his lungs and heart while getting him to talk.

“I thought you bloody knew you couldn’t bloody fly,” Dev says, his concern waning as he listens. Despite the initial panic, Kent moved faster than any human could have and Damian wasn’t under for more than a quarter of a minute. His heart and lungs both sound steady and clear.

“I was not attempting to fly,” Damian snaps back at him. His words aren’t slurred at all. “Are you stupid?”

Dev stands and says, “Stay bundled up.”

Wayne is coming through the door with Dick, Selina right behind them. He guides the young man to the fireplace and orders, “Strip down.”

“I’m not going to–”

“Now.”

Dick begins tugging at his soaked winter clothes and Dev kneels down to untie his boots for him when he sees Dick’s hands shaking.

“Damian is fine,” he says to Wayne and the rest of the room. “Just needs to warm up. The exposure was too brief for any serious threat.”

“Thanks, Clark,” Wayne says behind Dev.

“No problem. I’m gonna go change.”

Dev helps Dick pull his wet shirt over his head. A moment later, he’s down to boxers.

“Damian,” Dev says, turning, “make room for your brother.”

The blankets shift and Damian opens one side of the cocoon he’s been bundled in. Dev grabs Dick’s elbow and leads him to the couch. The young man crawls into the mess of blankets and pulls Damian onto his lap, tugs the blankets back around them all the way.

“Wayne,” Dev says, sliding the medkit out of the way with his foot. “Help me slide the couch closer.”

Wayne nods and they each take an end of the heavy couch and center it in front of the fireplace.

“You weren’t under long?” Dev asks Dick.

“I don’t think my face even went all the way under,” he says in reply. “Clark is fast.”

Dev tugs the blanket back a little to listen to his lungs and heart anyway.

“Sit right there,” he says, “until I say.”

Dick nods and tightens his hold on Damian. They lean back together, wrapped in the blankets.

When Dev turns to put his stethoscope away, he becomes aware of his audience. Everyone is standing around the living room watching.

“They’re fine,” he says again. “Just need to warm up.”

The room relaxes and Dev is still close to the couch when Wayne sits next to the bundled boys, and he overhears, “This isn’t your fault, Dick. It was an accident. You’re both okay.”

Dick sniffles and then says in a choked voice, “Happy birthday, Bruce.”

Dev is accustomed to the nervous energy of consultations and waiting rooms and by his honed sense, guesses it’s another full hour before the tension in the group is mostly abated, driven away by hot chocolate and some jokes that Jonathan tells and the table being set for lunch.

When they start putting food on the table, Dev goes to check Dick and Damian over again. He finds Dick staring at the fire and Damian asleep in his arms.

“His breathing seem alright?” Dev asks, sitting next to them.

“Mhmm,” Dick says dazedly, still staring at the fire.

“Dick,” Dev says sharply.

Dick startles and looks over at him, his eyes clear and alert.

Dev relaxes.

“Nothing, mate. Just watching for symptoms,” Dev says, standing. “You’re fine. Want to wake him for lunch?”

“Nah,” Dick says, settling back on the couch. “I’m just gonna let him sleep.”

Lunch is a noisy affair that Dev is mostly quiet through, listening to the rise and fall of familiar conversation, ribbing, and joking. There is a moment where he looks around the table, at Timothy sitting next to him and Alfie at the far end and Steph across from him; at Cass next to her and Clark next to Cass, Wayne at the head of the table and Selina at his left opposite Clark, an empty chair between Selina and Dev that an irritated Damian in pyjamas is now claiming; the elder Kents at the other end with Alfie and Jason and Dick taking the seat between Alfie and Steph.

He looks around and realizes it feels…normal. Not everyday normal, but get-together normal. Familiar and comfortable. He knows what he could say to Timothy or Steph to get them to laugh, what he could say to Alfie or Jason or any of them. The elder Kents are the only exception, and even their presence is familiar in an extended-relatives sort of way.

Dev looks down the other side and knows that Selina will leave after dinner, that Wayne will be hurt but pretend he’s not bothered and get over it quickly. He knows Kent will act completely normal until one small detail forces Dev to remember he isn’t.

He knows Damian will snarl at him and still find an excuse to join him and Alfie for tea. That Cass will pretend aloofness and then say something that cuts him to the quick of who he is and makes him feel understood.

The table is surrounded by people and though he has heard their heartbeats, set their bones, sutured their skin, he is not just the doctor anymore. It’s the first time he hasn’t felt the lingering inclination to insist that he isn’t one of them, and that realization creeps up on him between finishing off a bowl of soup and Alfie bringing out a cake.

So when Steph, with her highlighter and schedule on the table next to her plate, glances at the cake with the candles Alfie is lighting and then at Dev, he nods.

“I know it’s not your favorite, but,” Steph begins, looking down the table at Wayne.

“Sod it all, we’re _singing_ ,” Dev finishes for her, and he starts off the song. He won’t lie to himself and say he doesn’t enjoy, just a little bit, Wayne’s uncomfortable shift in his seat that is very nearly like squirming. But he also doesn’t look miserable and the hint of a smile is enough for Dev.

He knows they’re both men that don’t do well with celebrations, afraid of the ways they can and often go wrong. But he’s also aware that the past seventeen months have pushed him and prodded him and challenged him in ways he thought he was past at forty-one years old.

And it all started because he was foolish and curious enough to agree to do a surgery on Bruce Wayne, a surgery that probably should have killed him or come close to it, and Dev is still bewildered almost two years later that he pulled it off. He’s reasonably sure it wasn’t his own doing.

So Bruce Wayne alive, with family, celebrating a fortieth birthday in a world determined to deny him every year? That he survived the fight to get to 19 February 2017 and isn’t buried?

Dev is bloody thrilled to get to be there and bloody hell _yes_ it’s worth celebrating.

“You okay, Dev?” Timothy asks in a whisper when the song ends and Alfie begins serving slices of cake. “I’m not trying to be weird but for a second there, it kind of looked like you might cry. Do you want to skip cake and go hike or something?”

Dev looks over at him and grins.

“No, mate, I’m fine. Just getting old and sodding sentimental.”

Dick overhears part of this and breaks in, loudly, “Speaking of sentimental, Bruce, we were told not to wrap gifts for environmental reasons…”

Wayne looks at Clark, who shrugs sheepishly.

“You don’t like to open stuff,” he says.

“…but we weren’t told not to bring gifts.”

Dick flings the object down the table and Wayne catches it right before it hits his face, and unrolls it.

It’s a bright blue and glittery yellow and shiny red Superman necktie.

“Dick,” Wayne says, looking at it and then at Clark, who is grinning broadly. “Thank you. The board members will be relieved. They think I’m losing my sense of novelty.”

“Do you have a sense of novelty?” Jason asks. “Is it a replacement for your sense of humor?”

“Bruce has a sense of novelty _and_ a sense of humor,” Steph says defensively. “And a highly developed sense of style.”

She turns to look at Wayne again.

“My birthday present is how nice I’m being to you,” she says sweetly. “And this party schedule that made me want to exorcise the demon Excel from my computer.”

“I appreciate it,” Wayne says with a nod. “I’ll frame the schedule. Alfred can hang it up somewhere.”

“I updated and patched the computer on the Batmobile,” Timothy says quietly. “It won’t play Dick’s workout playlist on sharp left turns anymore.”

“That,” Wayne says, pointing a fork at Timothy, “is the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

Dev sees Timothy’s smile before he ducks his head to poke at his cake, and when he looks back up, Cass is standing right next to Wayne with a box and a tiny pleased set to her lips. Dev is certain it is an inhuman skill, how fast and quiet the Waynes can move.

“Cass,” Wayne says in a warning tone, “if this is another flannel shirt…”

Dev has seen him around the manor in that black flannel shirt. He’s not sure what the threat implies.

Cass lifts the lid and Wayne picks up something rich forest green and long and draped and hooded.

“Upstairs cape,” she says softly.

Wayne holds it up and then puts it on, right there at the table, tying the clasp and letting the hood fall down his back.

“Is that the one you got at the Ren Faire?” Steph is asking while Timothy mutters sullenly, “She’s always the favorite.”

Damian leans forward at the table to glare around at Timothy and Dev pats the smaller boy’s shoulder.

“It’s alright,” he says, “she’s the favorite but you’re the baby and no one can take that from you.”

“Selina could,” Dick says casually and half the table gasps. He shrugs and grins at Wayne, who is trying hard to maintain a glower but also has cake in his mouth. Alfie is scowling sternly at Dick. Martha Kent is biting her lip and Jonathan Kent is laughing into a handkerchief. Clark is very intently focusing on his cake but also grinning.

Selina alone looks untroubled, calmly eating icing off a fork tine.

Dev frowns at the white icing on the cake.

“But Damian…” he says under his breath and Timothy nudges him hard in the side.

When Dev glances over, Timothy whispers, “later.”

“And you all say I’m inappropriate,” Jason complains bitterly. “My present for you is upstairs and it’s not a joke and yes I planned it ahead of time and even if you don’t like it you have to lie to preserve my dignity because I poured my soul out and it is fricking terrifying. And eff you all.”

“What is it?” Steph asks. “You can at least tell us if you’re going to rip our heads off about it.”

“An essay,” he mumbles, pressing his piece of cake into a pile of mushed crumbs. He eats a bite of it anyway.

“Go get it,” Wayne says. “Stop mutilating that cake and get it. I’ll read it before–”

“Movie and popcorn!” Steph supplies.

“Before the movie.”

Jason’s chair scrapes back on the floor boards and he leaves the table with his cake plate in his hand.

“Your gift from me is in the locked drawer of your desk in the study,” Damian says.

“I saw it this morning,” Wayne says. “Stop picking my locks. And it’s an excellent sketch.”

“I am aware of this,” Damian says stiffly, but Dev offers a fist under the table and Damian gives him a shy sidelong glance before bumping the fist with his own.

“My present is my continued service in the face of the madness you perpetrate around you,” Alfie says from the far end of the table. “And also I had the red armchair reupholstered after all. Happy birthday, Master Bruce.”

The sentiment is echoed by a few around the table and Selina says, “I didn’t get you anything. But I did steal a diamond necklace you can chase me about later.”

“ _Selina_ ,” Wayne snaps, slamming his fork down.

She smirks at him.

“No, I lied. My gift is the fact that I can still pull one over on you. You’re welcome. Also, this keychain that’s a bit of bike gear. It’s idiotic but, hurrah, local artist.”

She puts it on the table and he picks it up and turns it over and says very quietly, his entire demeanor changed from the instant before, “Thank you.”

“I bought you a hill,” Kent says abruptly.

“You bought a what?” Wayne asks, turning to him.

“A hill, like outside. Grass. A tree. It’s a nice hill,” Kent says, looking a little uncomfortable. “I was going for theme and it was funnier in my head, and then a week after I bought it I said something to Lois and she said, ‘I think that’s the fiftieth birthday, Smallville,’ and you know, she’s right, but I don’t know about returning real estate and it’s a nice hill, so. I bought you a hill. Happy birthday.”

“Where exactly is this hill?” Wayne asks, amused.

“It’s by my parents’ place,” Kent says, rubbing the back of his neck. “So the next time you drag your feet about visiting, I can talk you into coming to check on your hill. I don’t know. Another thing that worked better in my head. Just forget it. I’ll buy you a card.”

“Clark,” Wayne says, as the alien scrutinizes his empty cake plate. “Clark.”

Kent looks up.

“Thank you.”

Kent’s face breaks into a relieved smile.

“Told ya so,” Jonathan throws in from the end of the table. “And I’ll mow it for ya, Bruce, so you don’t get snakes.”

Jason returns from the upstairs with a stapled stack of papers and he shoves it in Wayne’s chest as he walks by to the fireplace.

“What movie do we have to suffer through?” Jason calls.

Wayne is already reading, as promised, and when Alfie stands at the end of the table Dev stands, too, and starts to gather dishes.

“ _The Black Stallion_ ,” Steph answers. “He said Damian hasn’t seen it.”

“Aw,” Dick says warmly, “I love that movie.”

“That’s not too bad,” Jason admits from where he’s sprawled out next to the hearth. “I was afraid it would be some of that depressing French New Wave bullshit.”

“You liked _The 400 Blows_ ,” Wayne retorts without looking up from the essay, as Dev carries a stack of plates into the kitchen behind Alfie.

Jason mumbles but doesn’t argue with this.

“Let me,” Dev says, putting plates beside the sink while Alfie turns the faucet on.

“You and Martha have worked all morning,” Dev says when Alfie looks over at him. “And I’ve already had a proper, though accidental, nap. Go watch the film.”

“I’m sorely tempted to decline,” Alfie says, looking at the growing pile of dishes as Martha comes in with a stack of bowls and silverware, “but you have that look in your eye.”

“What look?” Dev asks, curious and surprised. “Do I have a look now, too?”

“You’ve had it since I met you,” Alfie says. “It’s the way you look falsely cheerful immediately before you shout at a stubborn patient. I’ve had opportunity to see it often. Martha, Kiran has offered to do the dishes.”

Dev shoves the sleeves of his sweater up on his arms and takes over at the sink before Alfie can reconsider.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Martha says. “I’ll make a pot of coffee if you don’t mind.”

“Tea at three, Kiran?” Alfie asks before leaving the kitchen.

“Right-o,” Dev says, looking around for a rag. Martha puts one in his hand.

“I could stay and dry,” she says.

“Bollocks,” he replies fiercely. “Go sit. I’ll draft Timothy into forced labor if I need it.”

“Alright,” Martha says with a smile, patting his arm. “Thank you.”

Martha stays until the coffee is done brewing.

He finishes the dishes alone and watches the rest of the movie, eats popcorn and has tea with Alfie and Damian in the kitchen, plays a few rounds of Apples to Apples that Timothy says he’s too literal for, and waves to the Kents and Jason as they leave for the airport after dinner, watches as Selina Kyle slips away from the house while others are around a bonfire on the beach.

Late night rolls around and they’re starting another movie, and he’s worn out and overcrowded and tightening his boot laces on the deck when Timothy finds him.

“Want me to come?” the boy offers, rubbing his arms against the cold. “I need to grab my coat.”

“Nah, mate,” Dev says. “Stay and enjoy a night off.”

“You okay?” Timothy asks, studying Dev’s face when Dev straightens.

“You know, Tim,” Dev says, looking out over the dark lake. “I honestly am.”

Timothy goes back inside the house and Dev jogs down the steps. He has a present in his pocket for Wayne but hasn’t caught him alone all day; he takes off into the moonlit woods, pulling a torch from his coat pocket and hoping he’ll catch him sometime later.

And as he follows the packed trail, snow peppered with brown leaves and twigs crunching underfoot, it occurs to him that he’s not had an unpleasant memory all day long.


	30. It was the best of times (the best), it was the worst of times (I'm a sodding idiot). 20 feb. vernon state park where all good things happen

The dark woods are frigid and though Dev loses track of time for a while and doesn’t mind the cold, he is starting to feel shivery and it drives him back toward the lake house.

On the lake shore, the bonfire is blazing again and there’s a small crowd around it. One of the figures is throwing rocks across the ice. As he gets closer, Dev makes out Wayne’s form standing by the stack of blazing wood, his face lit by the flames. 

It’s one in the morning according to his mobile and he’s still not given him the gift in his pocket. He resigns himself to failure on this count.

“You’re a bloody difficult man to catch alone!” he calls across the shore, stomping along the sand.

Then he stops short.

The faces that turn to him include Wayne and Kent’s, but the others are not Alfie or the kids. And it seems startlingly obvious now that they face him. His judgment of their sizes must have been obscured by the dark and the chill in his bones and his focus on the fire.

“Dev,” Wayne calls, “I thought you were at the house.”

“Heading there now,” he says, turning abruptly up the slope. He’s not even going to bother making it to the path. He can handle underbrush and he knows well enough when to clear out.

“Come back!” Kent calls. 

Dev stops but doesn’t turn around. He wants to very much, but he understands by now there are certain boundaries that are not his to cross unbidden, and it is not Clark Kent’s family he sutures back together at night.

“It’s alright, Dev,” Wayne calls after a moment. “Come warm up.”

“Are you quite certain?” he asks, before turning.

There’s another long pause and Dev feels himself being weighed in the silence.

“Yes,” Wayne says decisively. 

Dev walks back toward the fire and stops just short of the blaze, holds his hands out to warm them and avoids eye contact. 

It would be a lie to say he doesn’t feel a bit like he is going mental. He swallows and forces himself to look around at the small crowd with Wayne and Kent.

“Dev,” Wayne says, nodding to each person around the fire, “Barry, Diana, J’onn. Everyone, Dr. Devabhaktuni.”

“Call me Dev,” he offers, his mouth dry.

Dev raises his hand in a slight wave and returns his attention to the flickering tongues of flame eating the top spikes of piled branches. 

“You were trying to catch me alone?” Wayne asks, drinking from a mug in his hand. 

“It’s nothing,” Dev shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. Just have a gift for you later.”

If Dev could literally kick himself in the face, he would. He’s not flexible enough. Perhaps he can convince Timothy to do it, disguise it as a dare or something. He could have just sodding stopped talking.

“It’s past midnight,” Wayne says. “You’ll have to wait until next year.”

Dev has known him long enough now to be reasonably certain this is a joke, but he’s not quite sure. Either way, it’s a blessed out. Or it would be if the man Wayne had nodded to when he said ‘Barry’ didn’t speak up.

“A gift! We missed all the others. Is it true Dick gave him a Superman tie? These two are all zipped lips about it.”

“What the bloody hell makes you think I’d sodding tell you, then?”

Dev is used to wielding his words defensively, a shield between himself and irate, stubborn patients or balking, stubborn bat-family. But his nervous energy is imploding now, as he falls back on familiar guards at exactly the wrong time.

He wants to pitch forward into the fire and die. Maybe with some suffering, but also quietly, without drawing any more attention. Just silently burning, lying on the beach, staring at the moon and listening to the lake water lap against broken ice.

Barry has stepped back, a little startled, and the woman Diana is raising an eyebrow. 

Dev, despite his inner turmoil, is still just standing with his hands held out to the flames as feeling pinpricks its way back into them.

“Dev did his dissertation on victims of extraterrestrial attack,” Wayne says to the group, as a kind of deflection. Dev could hug him if they weren’t still somehow talking about himself.

“You read my dissertation?” Dev asks, looking over at him. 

"I’ve read all your published work,” Wayne says. “Why do you think I had you hired?”

“Shite,” Dev mumbles, jamming his hands in his coat pockets. He glances at Barry.

“Sorry I snapped at you, mate. I’m a bit out of my depth here.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Kent says warmly. “He’s a wonderful doctor.”

“What work with victims?” Diana asks. “Do you still do such work?”

Dev shakes his head.

“Why not?” Barry asks, bending to pick up another rock. He throws it and it slides along the ice across the lake.

“Hard to get funding,” Dev says. “Or willing patients. The science makes a lot of people bloody uneasy. They’re fine with theoretical but transition it to practical application and no one wants to talk about it. A lot of survivors are just put in homes or learn to live around the brain damage.”

“Hmm,” Barry says. He throws another rock. “I can understand the reluctance about practical application, but that still stinks.”

“Eh,” Dev says with a shrug. “I’m a better surgeon than researcher anyway.”

It’s not until he says this, casual and honest opinion as it is, that he realizes how much of his nervousness fell away when the conversation moved into the field of science. He glances at Wayne, who gives him a slight nod.

“You had a gift for Bruce,” Diana says, with a small smirk at Wayne. “One you wanted to give him alone. I am curious to see if it is because it would cause him embarrassment.”

“It’s bloody daft,” Dev says, hedging. “And it’s the sort of thing other people find morbid.”

**You are anxious, Kiran Devabhaktuni.**

“Bloody hell,” Dev yelps at the clear, deep and melodious voice inside his head. “What the sodding fuck?”

He puts a hand to the side of his head automatically, a frown on his face.

**I did not intend to alarm you, Kiran Devabhaktuni.**

“J’onn,” Wayne snaps across the fire. “You have to prepare someone before you–”

“Do it again,” Dev demands, looking up. 

This gets the others to laugh, except for Wayne, but he barely hears them.

 _Do it again,_ he thinks aggressively. 

**I only wanted to offer my assistance in distracting the others, should you wish to keep this thing between yourself and Batman private.**

“I wonder,” Dev says faintly but gaining energy, absolutely focused now, still staring at J’onn, “if this is being handled by Broca’s area or Wernicke’s area, and if the vestibulocochlear nerve or arcuate fasciculus are involved at all. If Scarpa’s ganglion is active, it would mean you’re essentially just operating on a profound level of voice throwing, but the fact that I can reply seems a mark against that theory. Unless you manipulate auditory voice and still manage a separate function of listening. If I answer, do you hear the response in my brain or in your own?”

“Dev,” he hears Wayne say in a warning and worried tone.

**I hear it as if spoken aloud. I do not know a better way to describe it. It is very natural to me. I can also access or share memory.**

_Bloody hell, there goes that theory. Unless it’s another skill entirely._

**I am sorry if this causes you distress.**

_No, no, I’ve just about a million questions._

“We’ve lost him, Bruce,” Kent is laughing. “One of us should have guessed.”

Dev shakes his head and looks over at Wayne.

“This is bloody phenomenal, you know that, yeah? Maybe you’ve forgotten how delicate the brain is.”

“Bruce doesn’t allow J’onn to communicate with him this way,” Diana tells him, sounding amused. “It has always unsettled him.”

“It’s a violation of personal space,” Wayne grumbles, throwing another log onto the fire.

“Timothy and Steph breaking into my flat and redecorating with My Little Pony memorabilia is a violation of space,” Dev returns peevishly. “This is a sodding wonder.”

“Bats makes J’onn use the telecommunicator,” Barry offers. 

“Don’t encourage him, Barry,” Wayne says, annoyed.

But Dev is already glaring at Wayne, aghast. 

“You bloody idiot,” he gasps. “What a sodding waste of resources. Because you’ve some bloody unpleasant memories? Fall in with the rest of us, mate, and join the fucking party.”

There is dead silence around the fire while Wayne just glares at him. Dev matches his glare. 

Kent chuckles.

“I told you guys,” he says, “that Dev could get away with it.”

“Get away with sodding nothing,” Dev snaps. “I’ve earned it.”

**I am not upset by his preference. Batman’s mind is a dark and fragmented place.**

Then Dev looks around and remembers who he is with. How many times over they must have earned the right to speak to Bruce Wayne any way they please, how much history they must have. And aside from that, who they are.

He’s with the bloody JLA.

He feels as if his blood has stopped circulating, his muscles limp with deprivation in the same instant.

“Do you need to sit down?” Wayne asks him quietly and he doesn’t sound upset. 

“Nah, mate,” Dev says, closing his eyes. “I’m just going to stop talking and pretend I’m dreaming for a bit. Ignore me. I’m a sodding idiot.”

“Earned it, huh?” Barry asks with a laugh. “Tell me, Bats, what do I have to do to get to cuss you out and live?”

“I’m not a threat,” Dev mumbles miserably, already forgetting his commitment to silence. 

“What?” Kent asks, concerned.

“I’m not a threat,” Dev repeats. “I get away with it because he could stop me anytime he bloody wanted and it wouldn’t even be a fight. I’m just a man.”

“You’re not wrong,” Wayne says, and when Dev opens his eyes the other man has a half-smile on his face; it’s sardonic and amused. 

Dev has had nightmares more pleasant than this.

“But you also earned it.”

And with that, the nightmare feeling is fading away and he’s just a foolish man standing on a beach with some of his heroes.

“I think we should bring him along next time,” Barry says. “I can think of at least a few rogues who would sit down and cry if someone talked to them like that. Maybe we’re too nice. Are we too nice?”

Dev hears this as if far away, observing the events on a telly screen or through a pair of binoculars. He’s busy. He has one ear on the conversation and the rest of his mind on something separate from it, as if looking down on a diorama split into two sections and manipulating things on both sides at once. Like figuring out how to make his fingers work in divorced action on a piano.

_John? Is it John?_

**J’onn.**

_Sorry, then. J’onn. I don’t mean to be bloody rude, but…_

**You may ask me questions. I am not offended.**

“You’re always too nice,” Wayne tells him. “And Dev is too valuable to take in the field.”

“But we’re not? Did you hear that, Diana? We aren’t valuable enough to tuck away safely at home,” Barry replies. 

_Hm. Was that a guess or can you determine emotion as well?_

**I have empathetic qualities but they often function in absence of telepathic activity.**

_Well, then. Is your skill hampered by distance?_

**It does help to know the precise location, but if I am being called for or actively searching, it is possible to communicate regardless of distance.**

“Well,” Kent says, “it does help that we’re, well, you know, pretty break-resistant.”

“Like Corelle dishes!” Barry snaps his fingers. 

“Did you just compare me, _me_ , to a dinner plate?” Diana asks.

“Just the _quality_ ,” Barry says defensively.

_Cor, that’s brilliant. And it doesn’t lose quality?_

**It is unlike a cellular connection, which you seem to be comparing it to.**

_That I was. Is it pictorial, then? Or language based? میں نے ایک ڈونٹ چاہتے.._

**Is the language Urdu? I do not know it well. But you are thinking of donuts? Or would you call them pastries? I forgot for a moment you are not American. I myself prefer Oreos.**

“I’m glad to hear you think we’re high-quality dinner service, at least,” Wayne says. “But that rules out Corelle.”

“Corelle is nice!” Kent exclaims. “My Ma has Corelle dishes.”

“But they’re breakable,” Wayne rejoins. “Advertising scam.”

“That’s nonsense,” Kent says, frowning at the fire. 

_It is Urdu. But pictures transmit data as well, which moves this a bit out of the language centers exclusively. Are memories visual or textual?_

**That depends upon the memory. Would you like me to demonstrate?**

_Bloody hell, yes. But I ought to warn you I don’t have a good record with them this year._

**Perhaps you should select one by thinking of it and I will join you there.**

“She made you be careful with them, didn’t she?” Wayne says.

“Yeah,” Kent sulks. “But I had to be careful with _everything_. Everything is breakable to me.”

“Hn,” Wayne says, with a sideways twist of his mouth. He sips from his mug again.

“Bruce is breakable,” Diana says consolingly to Kent. “That’s why it’s a touchy subject.”

“Oi, there,” Dev exclaims, momentarily shaken out of his memory-hunt by a sharp pang of protectiveness. “This man’s not breakable. It’s abnormal. And I drilled his skull open, I ought to know.”

“You drilled his skull?” Barry echoes.

“Don’t sound so shocked. It’s not like I did it for fun. But a man who comes back in eight months from a tumor corkscrewed around his upper medulla can’t properly be called breakable.”

Dev says this without his full attention in it; he’s been glaring at some broken clam shells because it’s easier than making eye contact while managing both fields of focus.

_Kiran clutches the cement side of the pool and takes a breath, then another. He pinches his nose with one hand. Across from him, a humanoid creature with green skin and a peaked, ridged head regards him. He’s never been there before but it doesn’t startle Kiran. He looks at him and finds he thinks of a man with brown hair, a 1940s trim, and a lined trench coat reminiscent of film noir private eyes._

_**“I do not mean to be difficult, but this tends to work better if you do not focus on me.”** _

_“Right. Sorry,” Kiran says from the pool. He closes his eyes and pushes himself down under the water. It’s cold against his closed eyes and tightly pressed lips and it swirls around his ears and then he springs back to the surface, the green creature forgotten as he shouts, “I did it! Did you see me, grandmum? I did it!”_

**This is a pleasant memory to you. Thank you for choosing it to share.**

_One of the best. So, empathy across memory, too? And you were there, so, visual. Occipital, limbic, and language. But through another’s brain._

“Wait, you’re _that_ doctor?” Barry asks.

“Which doctor?” Dev asks, musing still about brain function but finally looking up at Barry.

“The one who touched Bruce’s brain. Saw it in the flesh.”

“I didn’t exactly touch it, mate,” Dev answers, still thinking about the limbic system. “I was wearing gloves.”

This gets a choked laugh out of Wayne, who was mid-sip with his mug to his lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” Barry waves a hand dismissively. “But was it normal? Like, compared to other brains?”

“Bloody hell, no!” Dev bursts out, his attention pulled more in the direction of this particular conversation. “It was a brain, sure, but hardly normal.”

“It was normal tumor, Barry,” Wayne adds a little off-handedly. He sounds like he wants them to drop it. “Human and ordinary.”

“Mate,” Dev says to Wayne sharply, “I’m a bloody good surgeon but that tumor ought to’ve done you in. I told you it was a work of art and I wasn’t exaggerating. It’s the finest surgery I’ve ever performed. Tony Fabriello is still pissed at me that I didn’t force you to sign the waiver to use the video anonymously for teaching. That, with the scar tissue you already had, and ordinary is the last thing I’d call it. It’s a fucking wonder that you’re as well as you are, much less back to form after eight sodding months. You’re a bloody marvel.”

“And that’s why he can talk the way he does to Bruce, _Bartholomew_ ,” Diana tells Barry. 

Dev’s attention is straying again, driven away by the idea of occipital lobes triggered effortlessly by force thousands of miles away while Wayne stares into his mug and then looks across the fire to meet Kent’s eyes.

“Do you think you could keep up a dialogue while I do a CT scan?” he asks aloud, forgetting he doesn’t need to speak. 

J’onn looks unsurprised but all the attention around the bonfire is drawn to him as if by magnet.

“What?” Barry asks.

“He’s talking to J’onn,” Wayne says, his voice tight. Dev glances at him to see if he’s mad but the other man looks more unsettled than anything else, and even that is just a slight tilt of his brow.

“I do not know that my anatomy would provide the answers you are seeking,” J’onn says.

“Not you,” Dev counters. “Me. I want to see what areas are most active.”

“I told you they’d get along fine,” Kent says to Wayne. He receives a grumble in reply.

**I will happily assist you provided I am not busy. We can coordinate our schedules perhaps.**

_Cheers, mate. That’s brilliant. Thank you, honestly._

“You know they’ve been talking this whole time,” Diana says and Dev meets her eyes.

He meets the eyes of Wonder Woman, while standing across from Superman and near The Flash, beside Batman, and in the midst of telepathic conversation with Martian Manhunter.

**Are you perfectly well, Kiran Devabhaktuni?**

_I’m_

Dev feels himself sway and then feels Wayne’s hand under his elbow.

“Shite,” he says. “Shite, you’re the Justice League.”

Wayne nods and Dev can see that he’s fighting a smile.

“We are,” he says. “Some of us, anyway. You should sit down.”

“I’m alright,” Dev says, steadying himself but taking a step back from the fire just in case. “Bollocks.”

“I still can’t believe you _touched Bruce’s brain_ ,” Barry says. “Like, how many people on earth can say that?”

“None,” Dev says woodenly. “I told you, I was wearing gloves.”

Wayne puts the mug in his hands.

“I hate coffee,” Dev says. 

“It’s scotch,” Wayne answers. “Birthday tradition. Finish it off.”

Dev closes his eyes and drains the mug.

“C’mon,” Wayne says, “I’ll walk you up to the house.”

“Unless you want to stay,” Kent adds. “Bruce doesn’t get to throw you out just because it’s his birthday.”

**Have a good evening, Kiran Devabhaktuni.**

“It was nice to meet you all,” he hears himself say, the phrase automatic and rigidly formal. He’s gone sodding mental; is there any possible way he could sound more stupid?

“I’ll see you around, Dev,” Kent says by way of farewell and Dev turns to walk up the hill. Wayne walks with him and halfway up, Dev stops and digs in his pocket. He pulls a small bag out and hands it to him.

“Is that the birthday gift?” Barry yells from the beach. Dev looks over his shoulder to see Barry whacked across the stomach by Diana. He grunts but continues undeterred. “Come visit us at the Watchtower sometime! It’s in space, you’d love it!”

“What’s this?” Wayne asks as they climb toward the house, the bag caught between the light of the fire and the porch light on the deck. Down on the beach, Barry is asking, “Should we get him something? Like a gift. I mean, Bruce’s brain. To be _that guy_.”

“A drill bit,” Dev says to Wayne while they’re stopped on the stairs. “Your drill bit. I save all the ones I start surgeries with, but this is the first one I’ve given away. I’ve noticed the things about the Cave. They’re a sort of collection of things that nearly killed you, yeah?”

“Something like that,” Wayne agrees. “Except the T-Rex, that was from Clark.”

“Bugger me,” Dev mutters. “I _hate_ that dinosaur.”

“So I’ve heard,” Wayne says, looking the thin, grooved rod over and then tipping it out of the bag.

“Anyway, I thought it’d be poor taste to give it to you in front of the kids. Or Alfie, even. But I thought you might appreciate it.”

“I do,” Wayne says seriously. “Thank you. And you didn’t have to exaggerate for them, the League. Diana was giving me a hard time but they know I hold my own.”

“What? About the surgery?” Dev asks, raising an eyebrow. “Wayne, I wasn’t exaggerating. It was a sodding piece of work, that tumor. You’re a bloody inspiration. I still don’t know how either of us pulled it off, but the longer I know you, the less certain I am that it’d anything to do with me. And I’m honored that you’ve let me hang about. I don’t know what I’d have done without you or your family this year.”

And this is why, Dev knows, more than the object itself, he wanted to catch Wayne alone. He’s not the sort of man brave enough to let his profanity fall away into sincerity with a crowd, without a medical emergency directing his focus.

Wayne just looks at him for a long time and then rolls the drill bit between his fingers and considers it.

“Dev,” he says, “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”

Dev swallows hard and blinks at the steps. 

“I’m going in to hunt a cup of tea,” he says. “Thanks for the scotch and inviting me down. I’m sorry I shouted at you in front of your mates.”

“Don’t apologize,” Wayne says. “And if you want a cup of tea, I can promise you Alfred’s already up there waiting with one.”

“Happy birthday, Bruce,” Dev nods to him and goes the rest of the way up the stairs. He pulls off his boots and goes inside; the living room is dim and several younger Waynes are sleeping on couches or the floor in piles, with a movie menu up and muted on the telly.

Alfie’s just inside the kitchen and he calls softly across the dark room, “Would you care for a cup of tea, Kiran?”

“Please,” Dev calls back just as quietly, shrugging his coat off. “You’re the bloody best, Alfie, have I told you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Creative liberties with canon here, beware.


	31. 20-21 march.

The last week of February, Leena starts ringing him from London. At first it's video calls, and the first time, the walls behind her are the walls of their parents’ house and every time after that she’s in a hotel room or hospital hallway. Then she switches to just voice.

She rings every two or three days. 

They talk about everything and nothing, sometimes for a few minutes and sometimes for over an hour. It’s the most he’s spoken to her since secondary school. It feels almost like a betrayal of the bond he’s developed with the Waynes, but at the same time, he is hungry for contact with her. She’s his sister. They share so much without needing to discuss it.

When she asks, “Are you going to come see her?” and he says, “She told me not to come,” and he knows he’s a coward and it might not be what his mum meant after all, Leena doesn’t push it. She just says, “It’s okay, Sidney, she’s pretty out of it, anyway.”

Then there’s an eight day stretch where she doesn’t ring once and doesn’t return his calls. 

On the next day, she rings and when he answers his mobile there’s just silence on the other end for ten seconds, then thirty, then a minute.

“She’s gone, Sidney,” she says finally. And then she hangs up. 

He gets a text a minute later.

_Will ring again about funeral._

But it’s Kenji who rings him later that same day.

“She’s taking it pretty hard,” his brother-in-law says. “She’s tried to ring you four times, but she’s been crying too hard to let it go through. I’ll have her ring you tomorrow. The funeral’s on Friday. Should I tell her you’re coming?”

“I don’t know,” Dev says, and he doesn’t. 

“We’re leaving for Argentina the day after,” Kenji says. “I have to get her out of here.”

Dev calls off a work shift and spends the rest of the day lying on his couch staring at the ceiling, turning Leena’s words over and over in his mind. 

_She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone._

And he still doesn’t know how he feels about it. 

Sometime in the evening, he gets up and leaves his flat, drives to the manor and walks up the steps. 

Alfie and Wayne are eating dinner with Damian, Stephanie, and Cass and he skirts around the dining room and goes to the den and sits on that couch instead.

“Hey,” Wayne steps into the den after a few minutes, blocking the light from the hall. “Alfred sent me to ask if you wanted anything to eat.”

“My mum’s died,” Dev replies, trying the words out loud and seeing how it feels. He half-expects to break down after but he doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” Wayne answers, sounding actually apologetic. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Dev says, finding some measure of stability in just not moving. Then he changes his mind.

“Yes,” he says, turning to look at Wayne. “I want you to find my sister. I don’t even know if she’s alive but I bloody need to know.”

And after years of not looking, not trying to find her, leaving her be, hoping the best or dreading the worst when something like butterscotch ice cream or cinnamon cookies bring her to mind, it only takes Wayne an hour of searching from the Cave.

He finds Rani in Minnesota. 

Dev has a flight booked within the next hour, his seat picked with the tap of a finger while Alfie makes him eat a bowl of rice after finding he hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

He doesn’t go back to his flat that night. He rings the hospital to reschedule all his appointments for the coming week, grateful there are no surgeries slated, and then wanders down to the bedroom tucked away in the East Hall. 

Dev tries to sleep. He can’t. 

He just sodding can’t. 

He’s not even sure how he ends up in the storage room sitting next to the stored-away summer suit of armor, but that’s where he’s sitting with his wrists on his knees when his mobile rings a little after ten at night, three in the morning where Leena is.

“Sidney,” she says when he answers.

And then he’s crying. He cries with the mobile pressed to his face and his chest aching and his throat tight and he can hear her weeping on the other end of the line.

“She didn’t even know,” she says finally. “She was so sedated the last day, she didn’t even know. It was okay.”

“I’ll come,” he says. “I’ll be there Friday. I found Rani.”

If this surprises Leena, she doesn’t show it in her voice. 

“Okay,” she says. “But you don’t have to come.”

“I do,” he says. “For you. Fuck Da.”

“Thank you,” she says, sniffling. “I didn’t want to ask. You know she loved you, Sidney. In her own way.”

“I don’t know,” he says, honestly, too broken inside to lie. “But I’ll come for you.”

He lets her talk for another thirty minutes about mundane things like carabiner brands and details he doesn’t bloody care about like funeral flowers, just wanting to hear her voice. 

Eventually, she says, “Shite, Sidney, I need to sleep. I just need to sleep,” and he says, “okay, okay, it’s okay, good night. I love you, Lee.”

He must sleep at some point because he wakes up later, leaning back against the wall next to the suit of armor. 

Just as he’s trying to decide to get up, because bloody hell there’s a bed he could use just down the hall and he’s a flight in a few hours, the door opens and a light in the hallway flicks on.

Timothy steps into the storage hall and looks around the room, searching. He sees and walks over, sits next to him, puts his head on Dev’s shoulder.

“I’ll drive you to the airport,” he says. Dev leans his head on Timothy’s head and nods.

“Thanks, mate.”

They sit until the morning alarm on Dev’s phone goes off.

“Don’t you have school?” Dev asks when he stands up and stretches, stiff and shattered from being on the floor all night. 

“I can be back in time for class,” Timothy says. “And if I can’t, it doesn’t matter. Do you want me to come with you?”

Dev closes his eyes to think and Timothy says, 

“Dev, I’m coming with you.”

“Okay,” Dev says, because bloody hell he cannot decide anything right now, not even where to step next. But he moves forward anyway and has taken a shower and changed into clean clothes and found a scarf he’d left in the manor bedroom by the time Timothy comes back down the hall with a backpack.

“Do we need to stop at your place?” Timothy asks. “Do you need to pack anything?”

“Yes,” Dev says, because he knows it is what he is supposed to say and not because he can think of what it means.

Timothy drives and Timothy throws things into a bag for him while he stands in his own flat’s kitchen looking at the contents of a cupboard and then Timothy drives again. 

“I’m sorry about your mom,” Timothy says right before they climb out of the car at the airport.

“Yeah,” Dev answers, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

He sleeps on the tiny plane, the whole flight from Gotham to Mora, Minnesota. 

He dreams about the year he was five and they went to the zoo. It is a startlingly clear memory of nervously clutching his mother’s hand in front of the Asian tigers while she bent over and whispered to him in Urdu about her own childhood in another country, and the moment she let go of him to pluck a climbing Leena off the enclosure fence, with baby Rani strapped to her back in the midst of the London crowds. 

And it frightens him to not have her hand in his anymore.


	32. i should have done this years ago. 21 march. knife lake, mn

When the plane begins its descent, Dev wakes and feels both almost like himself again and a kind of hollowness inside that he is afraid to touch or stir. He doesn’t know how it will change him or how he is already changed, but he doesn’t want to find out now, on a plane, and so he carries it in his rib cage and leaves it alone.

The regional airport is small and crowdless in the middle of March, half a meter of old snow on the ground all around them and the tarmac and roads cleared. Mountainous piles of snow line one edge of the fields, black with grime and exhaust. 

Together, they leave the plane and find the two small, warring car rental company desks in a building not much bigger than a large house; one desk is closed for lunch, so that just leaves the Go-Mor desk and the balding employee sipping from a styrofoam cup of soda. 

Dev finds he is capable of thinking again, of making decisions, and he takes the lead in renting a car and driving and finding somewhere in Mora to get coffee and lunch for Timothy. He orders a tea and food for himself, but accidentally lets the cheap leaves oversteep until the mug is full of the bitter taste of tannin. He drinks it anyway and pushes food around on the turquoise plate; he forces himself to eat a few chips and then he can’t handle any more.

He glances over at one point to see that Timothy hasn’t eaten much more than he has himself, but is stirring a packet of sugar into his third mug of coffee. The boy shrugs. 

“I’m not hungry,” he says, and Dev doesn’t force it.

In the car, Timothy cranks up the heater and plugs the Knife Lake address into his phone and they’re off. 

“What are you going to say?” Timothy asks him after a few minutes, his head turned to watch the snow-thick landscape race by.

“I don’t know,” Dev admits. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Okay,” Timothy answers and the GPS prompts him to turn left in a half mile. 

Only twenty minutes out of Mora, they’re pulling into a paved driveway in the middle of nowhere. A two-story suburban house sits in a field, Christmas lights still hanging from the eaves.

Four kids bundled in snow suits are playing along the side of the house and a tilting snowman is by the edge of the porch. 

Dev stares. He thinks of the snowball fight with the Waynes just a month ago, how distant in the past it seems now.

“It’s the right address, yeah?” he asks Timothy before shutting off the engine.

“Yeah. Do you want me to wait in the car?” Timothy asks, and then he looks up at the kids, who’ve all stopped playing to stand about in the snow and stare back at him. “Actually, I should probably come up,” Timothy says.

Dev climbs out of the car onto the shoveled drive in front of the garage, shoves his hands in his coat pockets, and strides up the front stairs. He knocks on the door just as one of the kids is running around the back of the house shouting, “Mom! Mooooom, some guy is here!”

The front door swings open inward, leaving just the glass storm door between him and her.

His breath catches. She looks exactly like their mum. She has a toddler on her hip.

At first, she looks confused, her eyes on him and then on Timothy at his side, and then back on him. Then her eyes widen in realization and she shoves the storm door open. He steps back just before it slams against his shins.

“Kiran?”

“Hullo, Rani,” he says with a shrug. “It’s been quite a while.”

“Tim Wayne,” Timothy says, offering his hand in the silence that follows. 

She glances briefly at Timothy but doesn’t shake his offered hand.

“Uncle Dev?” Timothy asks, when neither he nor Rani speak. 

The toddler on her hip whinges and swings a hand at her face.

“Shh,” she says automatically, catching the hand with ease. Then she calls behind her, “Sarah, come get Porter, and bring me my coat.”

A young girl he guesses is around Damian Wayne’s age appears at her side with a navy coat in one hand and a book tucked under her other arm.

Rani turns to her. 

“Go tell Joe to bring the others in. Put the wet things in the dryer and start a movie and tell Hayley it can’t be _Milo & Otis_ again,” Rani pulls her coat on and and buttons it while Dev and Timothy stand on the porch. 

“You sent them out before Brayden finished his math,” the girl says, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder as she takes the toddler. 

“I don’t care,” Rani says, almost snapping. “And tell Joe to keep everyone upstairs in the playroom until I say.”

“Okay,” the girl says, looking suspiciously at Dev and Timothy before walking away with the toddler who is half her size on her hip.

Rani steps out on the porch and shuts the door.

“What are you doing here?” she demands. She glances at Timothy again. “And who is this?”

“I wanted to find you,” Dev says lamely. “I mean, I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Tell me what?” she snaps. “You couldn’t have found a phone number? I’ve got kids, Kiran, you can’t just show up after twenty two years and expect a ‘hullo.’”

Her accent is still there but it’s faded, a shadow of his own. Her vocabulary is different. She sounds like another person, someone wholly unlike the little sister he’d had as a boy. 

“Mum’s dead,” he says bluntly, feeling the hollowness in his chest flip in a beat to lead sinking rapidly in him, dragging him down. “She died yesterday. It was cancer. That’s all I know. I wasn’t there. Leena rang me.”

Her whole expression changes and she leans a little closer to him, looks at his face intently. 

“Who’s this boy?” she asks, nodding to Timothy. 

_My best mate_ he almost says, but he’s distracted by trying to suppress the lump in his throat, by the suddenly sharp memories of Rani in the upstairs hallway of their childhood home, lying on the carpet and crying because he’d tied her Barbie’s heads together in a fit of spite. Of his mum scolding him and buying henna dye to color the Barbie’s bodies and Rani crying again when it rubbed off the plastic and left her fingers orange-brown, smelling of the cola gummi sweets their grandmum liked.

“Uncle Dev is a family friend,” Timothy is saying, while Dev just stares at Rani like he’s mental. “He works for my dad.”

Rani looks at him hard for another moment and then relents, her face softening. Dev is flooded with gratefulness for Timothy Wayne and his quick mind.

“Come in,” she says, pushing the door open behind her. “We can sit and talk.”

The house is warm and every corner and wall overflows with pictures and books and toys. There’s a basket of laundry half-folded on the couch, a pile of socks next to it. An algebra book is peeking out from under the socks, a tattered notebook with a pencil in the spiral binding next to it. 

Rani clears workbooks and pencils and crayons off the table, shoves wooden shapes laced with strings into a bag. Then she offers chairs and they sit. 

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, standing at the end of the table. “Water or something?”

Dev shakes his head. 

She goes to the kitchen for a moment, divided from the room by a long counter covered with more books, with potted plants, with the remnants of a snack of graham crackers and apples and a sippy cup of milk.

Rani comes back with a steaming mug in her hand and sits at the table across from him.

“Um,” Timothy looks at Dev and then at Rani. “Do you want me to, um…go away?”

“Why didn’t you ever come find me?” Rani asks bluntly, ignoring Timothy. “Why wait until now?”

Dev is startled and he knows he shouldn’t be.

“I…I thought you needed to know. And I’ve missed you.”

“So why twenty two years later? Did you know I’ve a daughter at college? She’s older than you were the last time I saw you.”

Rani sounds angry. Angier than she did on the porch in the cold.

“I thought if you wanted us to find you, you’d call Leena or mum,” he finally says with a shrug.

“Leena? Are you serious?” Rani sips from her mug, somehow seeming angry and composed at the same time. “Leena and I never got along. We were always fighting, don’t you remember? And mum. Don’t get me started. I almost called her when I was pregnant with Lydia. But I knew I’d regret it so I didn’t and it got easier every baby after to not call. But you, Kiran. I hoped more of you.”

“Why?” he asks defensively. This is not how he anticipated this going, but really, he hadn’t anticipated _any_ of it going at all. He had no visual or preconceived idea.

“Why? Because I _adored_ you Kiran. Because I wanted you to find me and prove me wrong. I was so afraid you’d turned out like him,” she says.

It echoes Dev’s own fears so precisely that he freezes.

Then she looks down at the table. 

“I was so afraid I’d get trapped with both of you. I met Uriah and saw a way out, I took it. I always thought that if you were okay, if you were still you, you’d find me.”

“I wasn’t okay,” Dev says, doing his best to keep the steel out of his voice. “But I wasn’t like him, either.”

He says this while hoping fiercely that it is true.

“Have you been mad at me all this time?” she asks, her voice and face tough as she meets his eyes. But he sees something deeper, a fear he recognizes as his own. And he realizes what she’s been doing, throwing the most difficult parts at him like gasoline to see if he would explode.

“Timothy,” Dev says, seeing the tension in the boy at his side, “we’ve not told your dad we made it. Go ring him for us.”

Timothy is up and out of the seat in the blink of an eye and heads back toward the front room they’d come through.

“I’ve not been mad at you,” Dev says gently when the boy is out of the way. “I was bloody glad you got out. I hoped you got away to something better and I’ve missed you. I didn’t want to find you just to poison whatever you had. And the only reason I’m here is because mum has died and I’ve been thinking of you this year and wanted to see you and I’m selfish as fucking hell.”

“Kiran,” she says, glancing toward stairs off the kitchen. “Watch your mouth.”

She’s got tears in her eyes. 

“So, you can see what my life is like,” she says, sniffling and looking around. “What about you? Catch me up. Did you marry? What do you do?”

And it’s the best gift she could have given him, this invitation to just stay and keep talking.

“I’m not married,” he says. “I’m a neurosurgeon. I live in Gotham.”

Summed up so briefly, his life sounds hollow to him while he’s surrounded by the evidence of her own, which seems so full it’s bursting at the seams of the house. He wishes he could convey that he’s not miserable, that he’s found his own sort of family, but it seems too complicated to explain effectively.

“I don’t go home,” he says, sensing this is important. “Once, when I was told mum was ill, but I didn’t last a day.”

“A neurosurgeon,” she says, looking at him curiously, and he knows what she’s thinking about. He wonders how often she thinks of that day in the kitchen with his head split open, if it haunts her the way it’s haunted him. She’d only been fourteen.

“I’m sorry,” he says, frowning down at the table. He meets her eyes. “I’m sorry I lied for him. If I’d told the truth, everything could have been different.”

“We were just kids,” she says softly. “Joe’s the age you were. I’ve been thinking about you a lot this year, too. He reminds me of you, the way I remember you, and it’s the first time I haven’t been angry with you for protecting dad. You were my big brother and I didn’t know how young you really were until Joe’s birthday. I think for years I just thought of you as grown and I didn’t understand why you’d lie.”

She sets her mug down on the table. She puts a hand over her eyes and sighs.

“I’ve had a good life, Kiran. I _have_ a good life. I’ve just missed you in it. I’m so glad you’ve been alright.”

“I’ve been alright,” he agrees. “I talk to Leena sometimes, but I’ve mostly found my own place.”

“Any kids?” she asks. 

“No,” he says simply. “I’ve been fairly solitary until the past year, to be quite honest.”

“Oh?” she says, and she sounds a little sad. “What changed?”

“I started working for Bruce Wayne,” he says, and it’s the first time he thinks he’s said it that way to anyone. Even at the New Year’s Eve party, he was there officially to represent the hospital. 

Rani’s eyes widen. 

“Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne?” she asks. “You know he owns Uriah’s company.”

“It honestly doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “They’re that sort of family.”

Rani’s gaze flicks toward the living room. 

“Is he…”

“Timothy’s his son. One of them. He’s nearly as many as you. How many do you have, anyway? They moved too bloody fast for me to count.”

“Eight,” she says with a smile.

“Bloody hell,” he exclaims, lowering his voice halfway through. “That’s incredible, Rani. How do you keep track?”

“Oh, they’re loud enough,” she says, shrugging. “And if one’s really missing, I just go to the bathroom and they all turn up.”

“Tell me everything I’ve missed,” he says eagerly. “If we’re not in the way, that is. I want to know about all of you.”

“I need to call Uriah,” she says, standing up. She sounds reluctant at first and then decided. “And start dinner. But if you come around tomorrow, he has the day off, maybe you can meet the kids. When do you have to leave?”

“Thursday night at the latest,” he says. “But I can come back if you’ll have me.”

He stands, his heart aching in him. He’s missed so much. He never searched for her. He has no right to ask her to share any of it.

She stands a meter or so from him for a moment and then looks up at his face.

“I don’t know how you are with being touched these days, but do you think I could give you a hug?”

Rani always was the affectionate one in their family, hanging on his shoulders and sitting on his lap when they were small. He remembers giving her piggyback rides home from school and tickling her when she was cross with him.

He nods and she hugs him with the ease of someone who embraces those around her frequently and warmly. 

And even though it’s been so many years, his arms remember her, and for a moment again he is just a boy, and she his little sister.


	33. i've really missed rani. 22 march. knife lake, mn

Uriah Mullen is standing on the porch with his arms crossed and a withering frown that makes Dev wish he’d just started things off with a phone call after all.

Dev climbs the steps anyway with Timothy a step behind him and when he gets to the top step, Uriah, who is shorter than him by several inches, gives him a nod that Dev understands to mean _stop_.

He stops.

“Buddy,” Uriah says to Timothy, “you should probably go back a few steps and wait.”

Timothy also stops but doesn’t go back down the steps.

“Anything you have to say my uncle, I can overhear,” Timothy says with an authority in his voice that reminds Dev of Wayne. Dev is still startled by how naturally and easily Timothy uses the family term, but it’s just another reminder that Timothy is not a normal teenager and has a skill set that is beyond what most people possess.

When Dev doesn’t refute Timothy’s words, Uriah Mullen sets his jaw. After a moment, he speaks.

“Alright, then. We’ve met once before, I don’t know if you even remember it. But you didn’t make a good impression. Now, my wife is in there and she’s ready to take you back with open arms. She’s a pretty good judge of character and I want to trust her, but I’ve carried the hell of her childhood with her for more than twenty years now. If you hurt her, it will be the last thing you ever do. Do we have an understanding?”

Dev does remember meeting Uriah Mullen. He remembers the clean cut older teenager that sat with Rani at the kitchen table eating, one day when he came home from uni to pick up school paperwork that had been sent there by mistake. He had intentionally timed the visit for when he knew his da would be at work and his mum out running errands, so finding someone inside had unnerved him.

Just being in the house made him anxious and when she’d tried to introduce them, he’d shouted at her for not being in school and left without his paperwork, slamming the door behind him.

He’d wanted to go back and apologize but he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t bring himself to step back inside, and he’s fairly certain it was the last time he ever saw her.

“Thank you,” he says to Uriah, because it’s the first thing he can think of to say, “for helping her get away.”

Uriah now looks a little taken aback and his frown deepens, then fades.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “She says you don’t go back either.”

“No,” Dev agrees. “Not really.”

“Okay,” Uriah says, “but my promise is the same.”

Dev nods and Uriah turns and opens the door to lead them inside out of the cold lake wind. Dev is barely into the house before Rani is taking his coat and hugging him again, taking Timothy’s coat and hugging him, too. She’s in jeans and a t-shirt with scrawling, decorative text and a pale green hoodie she’s not bothered to zip up. It makes him feel overdressed in his slacks and button-up and sweater, even though it’s what he always wears.

“Listen,” she says, while they’re still in the entryway, “I have about a million questions for you and I bet you have some for me. But not in front of the kids today. Can we just visit? Just have you as part of our day today?”

Dev more than anything wants distraction. He wants to not think about London, about the failures and fissures of their past, of the gaping ravine between their lives. He doesn’t want to think about his mum dead and Leena stuck there at the house sorting things with his da and Kamala.

“Of course,” he says.

Rani beams. She seems like she’s in a bright mood despite her anger and reserve of yesterday and he knows now what Uriah was worried about, how much like the young girl he knew she still is-- so ready to forgive, to love, to welcome. While walking away was easy for Dev all those years ago, as messily as he severed ties, he can begin to understand why her severance had to be so complete and how hard it must have been for her.

“C’mon in, then,” she’s saying. “Were just having soup and sandwiches for lunch. I hope that’s okay. Some of the kids are finishing up school but we’ll introduce everyone.”

Dev follows her into the living room and stands on the rug, uncertain of what to do or where to go and at the same time incredibly relieved by his own discomfort, for all the other things it shoves out of his head. He looks over at Timothy, who shrugs.

“Can you listen to me?”

There’s a tug on his sleeve and Dev looks down. A small girl with braided hair and honey brown eyes is looking up at him.

“This is Hayley. Hay, can you say hello to your Uncle Kiran? This is mommy’s brother.”

“Hello, can you listen to me?” she repeats, tacking the hello onto the beginning in half a breath. If her mum suddenly having a brother is a surprise to her, she doesn’t show it.

“You don’t have to,” Rani says to Dev, trying to lead the little girl away by her shoulder. “Hayley, go ask Sarah.”

Hayley Mullen stomps her foot and complains, “Sarah said she’s busy and you said I can’t color until I finish!”

“It’s alright, Rani,” Dev says. He looks down at the girl. Despite her easy acceptance, he finds it nearly impossible to think of her as a niece. If anything, it’s easier to approach her like she’s one of his pediatric patients. “What am I listening to?”

Hayley takes his hand and drags him to the couch while Rani watches. When he sits, Dev is aware of a tall boy with trimmed, curly hair glaring at him from the kitchen.

“Is that your PS4 in the other room?” Timothy asks, while Hayley Mullen scootches herself close to Dev’s leg, almost on his lap. He edges away just slightly and she closes the distance again. He gives up and she opens a book.

“Yeah,” the boy says sullenly to Timothy. “But I can’t play it before four on the weekdays.”

“I’ll make an exception,” Rani says, “but say hello to your Uncle Kiran. This is Joe.”

“Hi,” the boy mutters, but he brightens when he turns to Timothy. “What do you play?”

“Oh, everything,” Timothy says casually.

When they leave the room, Rani calls after them, “Joseph Mullen, you have little eyes watching you! You watch the rating!”

“I know, Mom!” he calls back and he doesn’t sound very happy.

“…looking quiet green,” Hayley is already reading and Dev looks down at the page. A frog is serving another frog tea in bed in the single picture.

“Quite,” he says, reading over the two sentences he’d already missed.

“Quite green,” she repeats, flopping against him as she reads, a finger tracing along under each word.

Rani sits on the other side of her daughter and says quietly to Dev, over Hayley’s head, “You’ll have to give Joe some time. He’s like his dad. It’s my fault; I don’t talk much about my life before and he’s old enough to notice, so he and the older girls have sort of assumed the worst, I think. He’s going to need some time to warm up to you.”

“It’s alright,” Dev says. He feels a little strangled from being overcautious about his language while nervous; it’s not as hard to watch his mouth at the hospital, where he’s at ease. But he’s also enjoying just being silent and observing. He needs a chance to study them.

“Uriah’s making lunch,” Rani says, “he does on his days off. We eat a lot of chicken nuggets and fish sticks but-- that’s ‘perhaps,’ Hayley-- I don’t mind if it gets me out of the kitchen.”

“I feel,” Hayley says, in a voice that sounds like practiced imitation, “that you are giving me _partial tension_.”

“Attention,” Rani says. “And you’re right, we are.”

“I’m so bloody sorry,” Dev says, cringing as soon as it’s past his lips. He doesn’t look at Rani. “You’ve my attention now. Carry on.”

“Did Leena ever marry?” Rani whispers over Hayley’s head. “I know, I’m sorry, I said no questions, but I’ve been in an information desert.”

“Yes,” he whispers back, his eyes on the page Hayley is reading. She stops reading to giggle at whatever is happening in the story he’s not following at all. “A Japanese bloke. He’s good for her. No kids. They lead outdoor expeditions for a travel company.”

“Huh,” Rani says. The girl who took the toddler yesterday comes into the room and curls up against Rani on the couch. “Say hello to your Uncle Kiran,” Rani prompts her. “This is Sarah.”

“Hi,” the girl says, sitting forward. “Mom, can you fix my braid?”

Dev glances over to see Rani’s fingers tug a hair band out of the girl’s hair and then start braiding, her fingers flying.

“Kamala?” Rani asks, forgetting to whisper.

“Mommy,” Hayley whinges. “I’m _reading_.”

“In London,” Dev whispers once Hayley’s started again. “One son. Tyler. I think he’s ten. Maybe eleven. I don’t know.”

Rani opens her mouth to say something else, but a toddler’s thin cry comes down the stairs and a second later, there’s a bellow from another room: “Mom! Brayden won’t quit watching and do his math!”

A younger boy, his voice high-pitched and furious, shouts, “I _hate_ fractions! This is dumb!”

Sarah stands up and says, “I’ll get Porter,” and Rani stands calling, “Brayden Amos, you sit your butt in the dining room where I can see you-- I’ll be right back, Kiran, sorry-- and finish that page. Did you get the timer out like I told you to?”

Uriah is shouting, “I’ll get Porter!”

“I’m getting him!” Sarah yells from halfway up the stairs.

Dev is left on the couch with Hayley, who is still reading as if nothing around her has changed.

“What’s this word?” she asks a second later.

Without coming back into the room, Rani orders, “Sound it out first! Then ask if you’re stuck!”

Hayley growls and slams her head against the back of the couch and then lets her whole body slump down, as if her bones have turned to jelly. Dev just looks down at her.

“T,” she says, pointing at the word listlessly and saying the letter instead of the sound. “T, t, t. Okay, now, what’s the word?”

“I don’t know if–” he begins.

“A honest try, Hayley!” Rani says, before immediately returning to her out-of-sight stern reprimanding of a boy who keeps trying to interrupt her to snap and fuss. There’s a dramatic sigh and the sound of a book being slammed onto a table.

“Sorry,” Rani says, coming back into the room.

“Lunch in five!” Uriah calls.

“Mom, Porter pooped and it’s _everywhere_ ,” Sarah says from the top step.

Rani takes a deep breath and looks at Dev.

“I’m sorry,” she says slowly and evenly, “but welcome to the madhouse.”

Dev laughs, glad to have a reason to do so. He’s incredibly overwhelmed, but it’s such a good thing to be overwhelmed by that he rather doesn’t care.

“It’s fine,” he tells her. “Honestly. Can I help?”

“You’re helping _me_ ,” Hayley reminds him, tugging on his sweater. “I’ve got one page left. C’mon, let’s do this!”

“Mom, it’s _everywhere_ ,” Sarah says again. “Oh my gosh he’s gonna touch me hurry up mom I’m gonna puke, Porter, NO.”

“I can get him!” Uriah says again but he doesn’t come out of the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back,” Rani says, rolling her eyes. “I’m coming, Sarah, and I love you, please don’t puke on your brother.”

A timer dings in the other room and a boy shouts, “I’m done I did it I’m going outside I’m not hungry!”

A door slams as Rani calls down, “I need to check that page!”

“Should Brady be outside without a coat?” Uriah yells from the kitchen.

“Do you even need to ask that?” Rani shouts.

“Eh, he’ll come in when he’s cold, right?” Uriah replies casually. “Just in time for lunch.”

“…butToaddidnotanswerhehadfallenasleep. DONE.” Hayley rattles off, jumping off the couch. “Uncle Kevin, come color with me.”

“Kiran,” he says automatically.

“Kiran Kevin?” she says, blinking at him.

“Is that a joke?” he asks, bewildered and uncertain if six year olds joke like this.

“Yes,” she replies with a toothy grin. “Come color with me. Sarah gave me a book full of dresses from the olden days!”

“Dev! Dev, I need you!” Timothy yells and triggered by a year’s worth of Wayne incidents and a lifetime of medical response, he bolts on instinct for the other room.

He rounds the corner to have a controller shoved into his stomach while Timothy gives him a meaningful look and says in a panic that does not match his expression, “Hurry, I can’t do the final stage of this one as well as you.”

Dev looks at the screen. It’s _Rayman Legends_ and even if Timothy’s panic is faked, Dev knows from a torturous hour watching Timothy repeatedly attempt this level in the den in Wayne Manor that the boy actually is fairly awful at it.

So Dev stands next to the couch and bites his lip and lets his fingers fly across the controller, tapping buttons in sequence.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters without thinking about it when a spinning gear he’d forgotten about flies across the screen and he dodges it just in time. There’s a gasp and the sound of a clap at his leg and he glances away from the screen to see Hayley looking up at him with a hand over her mouth.

“You said hell,” she whispers.

“So did you,” he retorts, looking at the screen again, while internally shrieking at himself, _You are corrupting Rani’s children, you arse._

He finishes the level to fanfare and confetti on the screen and hands the controller back to Timothy. Joe turns to him with an expression of begrudging respect.

“I’ve never finished this one,” he says. “But don’t cuss in front of Hayley again.”

“Don’t tell Uncle Kevin–”

“Kiran.”

“–Kiran what to do, Joseph Mullen. He’s a grownup and if you’re mean I’ll tell mommy you listened to a song with bad words in it when you drove me to church last week.”

“Hayley, don’t get in the middle of-”

“Five of them! I counted! I remember them all!”

“Your brother is right,” Dev says, looking down at her. She looks up, her face still red and indignant. “I know better.”

This seems to pacify Joe and he returns to the game with Timothy.

“Coloring. You _promised_ ,” Hayley says, though Dev doesn’t remember promising. He turns and sees another teenage boy curled up in a chair in the corner. His hair is longer, down to his shoulders and falling in his face, and he has headphones on and an iPad in his hands.

Rani is at the threshold of the room with a clean toddler on her hip, his hair still damp.

“Porter, Uncle Kiran, Kiran, Porter,” she says. She follows Dev’s line of sight and says, “and you haven’t met Jesse, yet.”

She walks over to the boy and crouches down, puts one hand on his shoulder.

“Jesse,” she says. “Pause.”

He taps the screen and looks up.

“Lunch is not for three minutes,” he says. “Lunch is at noon.”

“Say hello to your Uncle Kiran.”

“Hello, Uncle Kiran,” he repeats obediently, his attention already on the iPad again. He’s chewing on the sleeves of his shirt, the hem caught between his teeth while he tugs at it over and over.

“Your uncle is a surgeon,” she says to him, pulling her hand back.

The boy looks up and makes the briefest of eye contact.

“I am interested in the human body,” he says, looking at Dev’s forehead. “Not to the extent that I am interested in music, but I would categorize it as a strong interest and not a mid-level one like cooking, which is an interest of mine primarily because I recognize that it is useful skill for self-care.”

“What sort of music?” Dev asks.

“Don’t get him started,” Hayley whinges, pulling on Dev’s hand.

“Hayley,” Rani says in a lightly reproachful tone. “Go play.”

Hayley stomps out of the room.

“It is lunchtime,” Jesse says, taking his headphones off. “We can continue this conversation later. I will show you my guitar.”

He leaves the room and Dev doesn’t have to ask Rani.

“He’s not a savant,” she says in a protective and warning tone. “He has some fine motor delays but he works really hard.”

“I understand,” Dev says. “I mean,” he backtracks, feeling like he’s skidding around a turn too quickly and losing control, “I don’t understand the way you must, but I read and I’ve had patients, and it’s my field. I mean, autism isn’t, but the brain is and I’ve…sod it all, forget I started talking. He seems sweet.”

“He is,” Rani says, setting the toddler down. Porter makes a beeline for Joe. “He’s also stubborn. And you’re fine; I’ve got a pretty thick skin by now.”

“Lunch!” Uriah calls.

“That is Lydia’s seat,” Jesse says to Dev when he pulls a chair back at the table.

“Jesse,” Rani says, “we talked about this.”

The boy bites on his sleeve and then says with a heavy sigh, “Lydia is at college. I know.”

“Go ahead,” Rani says. “It’s fine.”

Two hours after lunch, Dev is bundled in his coat and scarf and pulling Porter on a sled. He has listened to Jesse talk about Spanish classical guitarists for twenty minutes, formally met Brayden and commiserated about the superiority of decimals, colored an American Civil War-era dress with Hayley, and admired Joe’s collection of manga prompted mostly by Timothy’s cues at what should be impressive.

And now, stomping through the snow, Porter giggles and repeatedly throws himself off the sled. Every time it happens, Rani bends and puts him back on.

“I’m sorry Lydia and Paige couldn’t be here,” she says after they’ve made a lap of the house. “Maybe next time. Paige tried to get off work, but it’s her first job and she’s afraid to be pushy.”

“It’s alright,” he says, feeling like it’s been his litany all day. Uriah is watching them from the kitchen window when they go by. Rani waves at him.

“Having a good time spying?” she shouts across the snow, and in response, he tries to glare and grins instead. “Come join us!”

He disappears from the window and Rani says, “I’m not coming to the funeral. Uriah doesn’t want me to.”

“I don’t blame him,” Dev replies.

“That’s not true,” Rani says, stopping in the yard. She runs two steps to catch up when Porter hurls himself face first again, laughing. “I mean, it is true, he doesn’t want me to go. But it’s cheating to say it like that. I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t bloody blame you,” Dev says. “I’m only going for Leena.”

“Mom’s been dead to me for a long time,” Rani says, glancing down at Porter’s red cheeks and toboganned head. “Hold up.”

Dev stops and she pulls a tissue from her coat pocket and wipes the toddler’s nose.

They start walking again. Uriah is coming down the front steps to join them, a thermos in one hand.

“Anyway, all of you have been. I mourned her a long time ago. Getting you back is like getting someone back from the grave.”

“Honestly, Rani,” Dev says, “I didn’t come all the way out here to drag you to a bloody funeral. I just wanted to see you again.”

“Hot chocolate?” Uriah offers Rani as he falls into step with them.

She takes it while looking at Dev.

“Timothy and I should go soon,” Dev says. “I don’t want him to miss too much school, so we ought to fly out tonight.”

“You’ll come back?” Uriah asks, meeting his eyes. It’s a challenge and a dare, and Dev understands. If he vanishes for too long, the door might not open to him again if Uriah has anything to do with it. There’s a tiny part of him that wants to protest, to say that Rani left to begin with, but he knows deep down she did what he couldn’t do. She saw the house burning and she escaped. He’s held on to smoking rafters for years, letting it burn him along the way.

“I will,” Dev says. Uriah takes the sled rope from him and takes off at a jog and Porter stops throwing himself into the snow while he clings and shrieks in joy.

Rani and Dev are left standing next to each other and he looks at her.

“You’ve a bloody gorgeous family,” he says, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. “I’m so sodding proud of you, I don’t even…”

Rani’s eyes are full of tears and she hugs him with one arm, the thermos held away from them in the other.

“I’m glad you came,” she says. “I know it’s only been half a day, but you seem so much like who I hoped you’d be. Except you’re taller than I remember.”

He laughs, a half-sob of a noise and he sniffles in the cold.

“I grew five centimeters in uni,” he says. “Late bloomer.”

“Maybe there’s hope for Joe after all,” she says. “He’s still pretty mad that it looks like he won’t pass up Uriah. He’s had his heart set on it for years.”

Rani lets him go and steps back, waves at Porter who is waving and then falling off the sled and crying about it, despite his repeated self-mutinies earlier. She hands Dev the thermos and sprints to catch up with Uriah and the toddler.

Dev walks with them for a bit longer and then goes inside to find Timothy, says goodbye to everyone, and has Timothy book flights from his mobile while they drive. The boy is oddly quiet, even for him, as they pull into the hotel car park for the small branch of a national chain they’d found just off the interstate.

“You alright, mate?” Dev asks him before climbing out of the car. He hopes Timothy doesn’t turn the question back on him, because he doesn’t know what he’d say: he’s a smoldering ruin, exhausted and overwhelmed, ecstatic for Rani and the chance to know her again, heartsore about Leena stranded in London, confused about his mum, distracted from his own efforts at distraction to the point that he can’t even sort what he feels or how he should be.

“They’re really nice people, Dev,” Timothy says quietly. “And you could probably find a job out here, or closer to them, anyway.”

“Bollocks,” Dev exclaims sharply, relieved that it’s an easy thing to answer, a distraction on top of distraction on top of distraction. Taking care of Timothy is something he can actually do. “They’re lovely, but they’re mostly strangers. I bloody well want to change that, but Tim, mate, you’re family to me. What would I do without surgery and cave emergencies or Gotham or you and Alfie? I’d be a fucking disaster, and you know, I’ve not said fuck all sodding afternoon and it’s been like a muzzle. I don’t know if it’s healthy, but bloody hell, you’ll have to pry me away from your lot with the jaws of life.”

Timothy looks over at him and Dev can literally see the tension falling away from the boy.

“Okay,” he says with a slight grin, “Uncle Dev.”

“Don’t even,” Dev warns him. “It’s weird as hell.”

“What would you even call us, then? Our relationship?” Timothy insists. “I’ve been thinking a lot and maybe it is like nephew and bachelor uncle.”

Dev climbs out of the car and then leans back down to look at him.

“Timothy Wayne,” he says, “I thought you knew. We’re best mates.”


	34. funeral. 24 march. london, U.K.

The weary numbness Dev is soaked in on Friday is an entirely new kind of feeling, the result of standing or sitting near the front of a London funeral home by an open casket as a stream of people walked by and said something to him about how young she was and how it was a tragedy and how long it had been since they’d seen him last.

The final comment always came with some sort of sigh on his mum and da’s behalf, so he stood in front of the casket that held his mum’s body, her forehead smeared with turmeric he couldn’t stand the smell of, and heard under the words his parents’ friends said, _You’re a poor son, Kiran_ over and over again.

It helped that Timothy was there, hanging near the back when it was crowded and moving forward to stand or sit behind him when it was not, talking quietly to him or to Kenji. Whenever the boy spoke to Kenji, it was in Japanese.

Dev made it through the viewing, the funeral service, and Kamala snapping at anyone nearby, “She would have wanted a _Hindu_ funeral.”

By now, standing with Kamala and Leena and Tyler near the casket and waiting for the hearse to be ready to take the body to the crematory, his arm and shoulder ache from accepting so many handshakes and hugs and he thinks if someone else touches him he might snap.

He has mostly, up until this point, avoided his da. He’s managed it by standing at the other end of lines, by Leena always stepping between them, by avoiding eye contact. It isn’t difficult. His da is avoiding him, too.

Timothy is at his elbow and gives him a tight kind of smile that’s not really a smile when he glances over at him. It’s the sort of face that says, “hang in there.” Dev resists the urge to sigh because he is genuinely grateful Timothy came along. The boy had stuck to his side through another day at Rani’s, through a stop in Gotham, traveling to London. Dev hadn’t bothered arguing with him or trying to get him to stay behind once Timothy had insisted on coming to the funeral, too. If it bothered Wayne that Timothy was skipping classes, he hadn’t said anything that Dev had heard.

The room is emptying now, though there are still small groups of people standing around and talking with each other. It’s hard to tell why they are still there, unless it’s from a sense of obligation or just having not seen each other in a while.

Set back from them, shielded by the unspoken agreement that the family is suddenly off-limits in the last couple moments before departure, he imagines what they are saying in a detached and curious way, things like, “Oh, let’s not wait until the next funeral to see other again,” or “How is your daughter getting along, anyway?”

He’s pulled away from his thoughts by the sound of crying. Tyler has sat down in one of the metal folding chairs near the casket and has his head in his hands. The ten-year-old has seemed so aloof and bored the whole day that it surprises Dev.

Before he can even process his surprise, react to the crying itself, he hears his da snap in a tone that makes his blood run cold and he’s turned to stone.

“Stop it. You’re too old for that. You’re not a baby or a girl.”

Tyler sucks in his breath in one long sniff and makes a genuine effort. He fails.

“Don’t speak to him like that,” Kamala hisses, stepping between her son and her father, and a few heads turn toward them. “He’s allowed to cry. His grandmum is dead.”

Dev cannot move. He should do something, say something, but he feels ten years old himself all over again. He feels Leena’s hand on his arm and he can move, just enough to pull his arm away from her.

“It’s embarrassing,” Dev’s da snaps, “Look at him. He’s a young man.”

“Just because you won’t cry for her doesn’t mean he can’t,” Kamala snaps and more heads are turning, conversations across the room hushing in tense silence. “Mum deserves someone to mourn her and not just her cooking and cleaning.”

The sound of a slap echoes in the small room and Kamala is stunned, holding her cheek, and Dev’s da is red-faced, angry and starting to shout about how spoiled Kamala is and Peter behind him is protesting with the hands-up tone of a mediator, and before he’s even aware that he’s chosen to act Dev is stepping forward.

His fist makes contact with his father’s jaw and the older man’s shouting stops abruptly in the _crunch_ of it.

There is a moment of bewildered quiet and his da’s eyes are full of fear, but catapult rapidly toward anger again and when he straightens his shoulders into that military posture and opens his mouth to shout once more, Dev hits him again, same fist, same spot on the jaw.

This time the man goes down on the plush carpet of the funeral home floor, blood seeping from his lip, and Kenji and Timothy are hauling Dev back by both his arms and Dev becomes aware that the steady and stern rebuke he thought he was delivering is in fact frantic, profane screaming.

“–ever touch her again, you bloody fuck!” is the last thing he gets out before he’s dragged past wide-eyed attendees and out of the room.

Kenji lets go once it’s clear that Dev isn’t fighting and he heads back into the room while Tim uses the momentum to pull Dev straight outside into the alley off a side door.

Dev slumps to the alley tarmac like he was the one hit, his reddened and shaking hand draped on one knee.

“I’m going to get ice,” Timothy says, going back inside.

Leena comes out the side door, turning sideways to let Timothy by before she steps down the single stair and sits next to Dev, their backs against the building.

She puts a hand on his shoulder and he jerks away, breathing hard, staring at the pavement. She doesn’t try to touch him again but she stays there, tugging down the hem of her black dress.

Timothy comes back out a moment later with a bag of ice and he crouches in front of Dev and puts the ice across Dev’s knuckles, which now howl with pain as his adrenaline levels are dropping and his cortisol is edging up.

“Bloody fuck,” he says, finally speaking, his voice full of panic, “bloody fuck, I’ve broken my hand. Shite, shite, _shite_.”

“Dev,” Timothy says softly at first and then the boy snaps when Dev continues, “ _Dev_.”

Dev stops talking and looks at him. Timothy is calm and serious.

“It’s not broken. You just don’t know how to throw a punch.”

All Dev gets out of this is that his hand isn’t broken. He puts his other hand over his face and can see his da on the floor again, shocked and terrified.

“Oh, god,” he moans. “I’m just like him after all. Bloody hell, I’m just like him.”

“No, you aren’t,” Leena says and she sounds angry. “That first summer after the coma, I was terrified you were turning into him. You shouted at everyone and wouldn’t let anyone touch you. But you got out. You were different again after school and you aren’t like him. I wouldn’t ring you if you were.”

“You don’t even see me,” Dev protests from behind his hand. “How the bloody hell would you even know? We never see each other. None of us do.”

“Dev,” Timothy says softly. “You aren’t like him.”

Dev doesn’t move his hand away from his eyes. He’s crying and he presses his fingers across his face until it hurts.

“You save lives, Dev. You’ve put aside your own safety or comfort just for our family, over and over again. You’re an amazing person and I don’t know how you did it, how you managed to stay so compassionate after all the shit you dealt with. It challenges me when I start to feel too cynical and I’m so, so glad it was you I called when Bruce was self-destructing. It’s not just that he listened to you, and Bruce doesn’t listen to _anyone_ , but you stayed with me that whole night and played video games and never once made me feel stupid. I don’t think you understand how rare that is, that kind of caring.”

Dev forces himself to move his hand, to meet Timothy’s level gaze.

“You are a freaking amazing person, Kiran, and you aren’t like him. And I’ll keep saying it as many times as you need me to until you believe it.”

Dev nods.

“I like you,” Leena says to Timothy in the silence that follows.

“I’m sorry, Lee,” Dev mumbles, using a knuckle to wipe his face where the skin is wet down into his beard.

“No,” she says, sighing. “You’re right. We’re grown adults and we let him tear us apart. It’s awful that we never see each other and always have excuses.”

Dev tugs his hand away from the ice pack Timothy is holding and looks at the bruise blooming across the numbed skin.

Leena snatches his arm and pulls it to her face, staring wide-eyed at his wrists where the sleeve has slipped further up his arm.

“Kiran Sidney,” she breathes, attention fixed on the scars across his wrists. She wrenches her eyes away to look at his face and she’s gone as pale as a ghost. “What did you do? When was this?”

“I…” Dev stares stupidly at his own wrist and then back at her. “I didn’t…”

“ _Sidney_ ,” she says, “what the fuck, Sidney? Why didn’t you say something?”

She looks at Timothy.

“Did you know?” she’s still holding Dev’s wrist, looking closely at it again. “This isn’t old. Oh my god, Sidney.”

Dev looks at Timothy and he knows now what Alfred meant, all those months ago, about what it might cost him to carry their secret. The agreement he made when he stepped on the elevator to guard it with his life.

Timothy’s eyes are full of tears now and they weren’t a moment ago.

“November,” Dev says faintly. “It was in November.”

Leena drops his hand and she’s crying now, sitting next to him and curled up on herself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, knowing she will hear it one way while he means it another.

He sees something shift in Timothy’s face. He’s been looking at him the whole time because he needs to have an anchor, he needs to not look at Leena while he lets her believe this thing she will certainly blame herself for.

“Dev,” Timothy says, “I know the police told you not to tell anyone, but I think you can make an exception for your sister.”

Leena stops crying and sits forward.

“Tell me what?” she demands.

Dev has no idea what Timothy is doing so he keeps his mouth shut. He’s not daft.

“Dev and my brother were kidnapped,” Timothy says, looking at Leena now. “We work really hard to keep that kind of thing out of the papers. It’s bad for the company. Dev saved his life.”

Leena punches him hard in the arm.

“Sidney,” she says, sniffling, while Dev just stares at Timothy. “Sidney, you had me fucking _terrified_ for you. ちくしょう.”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he says slowly, looking over at her. “I don’t bloody _like_ to talk about it.”

He puts an arm around her shoulders and she leans against him. He mouths ‘thanks, mate’ at Timothy, still a little stunned.

“I’m glad you punched him,” Leena says. “Or I would have.”

“I was about to,” Timothy admits. “And then Bruce would have had to come bail me out of jail.”

Kenji comes out on the step and looks down at the three of them.

“They’re leaving,” he says.

“Is Da going?” Leena asks without moving.

“I think so. Kam and Peter took Tyler home.”

“Let him go with her alone,” Leena says to Kenji, looking up at him.

“You certain?” Dev asks her. “I can pull myself together. We can go if you need to.”

Leena shakes her head.

“It’s just a body,” she says quietly. “It’s not mum anymore. Let’s go get something to eat instead.”

“Alright,” Dev says, flexing his stiff and sore hand. It’s not broken. He stands up and pulls Leena up after him. She moves away from him, reaches for Kenji’s hand and pulls him down the step.

Dev looks at Timothy.

Then he pulls him into a hug.

“Thanks for coming, mate.”

“I keep telling you, I’m just here because you’re interesting,” Timothy replies, returning the hug. “But you never seem to believe me.”

“Sod off,” Dev says fondly. “Now let’s go find you some coffee.”


	35. rose bushes. 27 march. wayne manor.

The small table in the parlor is set for tea, not far from the grandfather clock that hides the elevator to the cave, but there’s been no move to pour the tea or do anything other than just sit. And the sitting itself is a kind of relief. As far as Dev knows, Alfie is the only other person even in the Manor, and they’re just sitting with the steam seeping from the porcelain teapot. Dev’s hand is yellow and green with a three day old bruise and he rubs at it self-consciously, half-enjoying the visceral pain from pushing on the tender skin.

The older man is watching him carefully and then leans forward to pour the tea.

Dev hasn’t been able to meet his eye long enough to make him out. He avoided the manor for all of yesterday after landing in Gotham, solely for the purpose of avoiding this conversation. He doesn’t quite know how he’ll cope with Alfie’s disappointment, and he finds himself still caught between defensive justification and the shaking sense that he is on dangerous ground any time he lets himself slip even a half-step closer to the kind of man his da is.

“Timothy told me what happened,” Alfie finally says, sipping his tea and sitting back a bit in his chair. When Dev glances at him, the older man is looking over the grandfather clock and making a face like he’s just noticed a streak of grime on the glass.

“Hm,” Dev says noncommittally. He reaches for his own cup of tea and then changes his mind, pulls his hand back and drums his fingers on his knee. He wants to eat a biscuit just to prove that he can, that he’s not about to vomit all over the tea service. He snags a sugar cube instead and sucks on it, hoping the syrupy sweetness will settle him.

It is when he grabs the sugar cube that he feels Alfie’s attention pulled back to him.

“Goodness gracious, Kiran,” Alfie says, sounding a little wounded. “I’d not properly noticed. You’re terrified. Of me?”

Dev takes another sugar cube and doesn’t look up. His hand aches and he barely slept the night before, even though sleep is rarely something he finds hard to come by. He shouldn’t have come yet, he should have just waited a few more days. He feels run through the gauntlet, between meeting Rani again and the funeral and being in London at all, and it’s bloody mental that he’s even–

“Kiran,” Alfie says gently, and it is the gentleness where he expected sharpness leading into rebuke that makes him finally stop his racing mind and just look up.

“Do you believe me to be upset with you?”

“Bloody hell, you ought to be,” Dev snaps, even though snapping at the older man is the last thing he wants to do. But he’s unsettled by the response he’s getting and uncertain where it will lead. He scowls down at the table and picks up his cuppa and sips it, not caring that it’s still a touch too hot.

Alfie starts laughing. Dev, shocked and bewildered, holds the cup of tea at his mouth tipped almost against his lip but not quite. He’s frozen while Alfie laughs until he cries, setting his own saucer and cup down to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.

Still chuckling, the older man reaches across the table and takes the cuppa right out of Dev’s motionless hands and sets it on the table.

“I’m sorry, Kirry,” Alfie says, a bit of laughter lingering in his throat. “I don’t mean to make light of your distress.”

“Alfie,” Dev says, in protest at the entire situation and his helplessness in it.

“Kiran, have you forgotten where you are? Who we have as our employer?” Alfie leans back in his seat with his arms crossed and he nods to the grandfather clock. “Master Bruce put, by his own estimation, three scoundrels in casts last night. I’ve not left yet, even with plenty of opportunity. And you expect reprimand from me because you struck a man who abused you, and in defense of a child and your sister? If Master Timothy’s account is accurate, and I rather believe it is, then the only fault I can find with you is that you’ve been with us for over a year and haven’t bothered learning how to properly land a blow without risking your hand.”

The apprehensive dread that’s been holding Dev stiff in his chair diminishes with every word, siphoned out of him by Alfie’s manner and tone. He droops in the absence of it, sagging forward to put his head in his hands.

“Sod it all,” he mutters.

Alfie stands and puts a hand around Dev’s arm and firmly pulls him to his feet. He wraps him in a hug, brief and tight.

“We’re too properly British for this,” Alfie tells him, when his face is near Dev’s ear. He steps back and holds Dev’s upper arms, gives him a slight shake and studies him up and down, “but you know I make exceptions when they’re especially called for. Now, sit and let’s have our tea. If you need to discuss the past week, I’m more than willing, but I’ve a suspicion you’d rather just chat and regain some semblance of normality.”

Dev sits back down and sips his tea but finds his nervous energy returning, carried into his tapping foot and distracted hum as he arranges sugar cubes into a pyramid. He’s moved on to attempting a bridge with them before it registers that he’s not been talking at all and that Alfie has refilled his tea twice.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking up. The older man is chewing a hazelnut biscuit with a contemplative expression.

“Don’t be,” Alfie says. “It’s perfectly alright. Do you work tomorrow?”

“Fabriello insisted I take off until Thursday,” Dev sighs, rearranging the cubes into a tower. “All I did yesterday was sit around my flat and it was bloody awful. I just want to work again and have at least one thing that I know how to manage.”

“He’s not quite the villain you make him out to be,” Alfie says mildly, gathering tea things onto the tray. “But if you have the day off, then I don’t mind asking for your help this afternoon.

“Please,” Dev says, aware that he’s frighteningly close to pleading. He scoops the sugar cubes he’d been building with into his empty tea cup to be thrown out.

“Come along, then,” Alfie says, taking the tea service to the kitchen. Dev lingers in the room for a moment, taking a breath before he stands to follow. He’s willing to do anything Alfie puts in front of him to do, just to be doing _something_.

“Do you know where the garden shed is?” Alfie asks from where he’s already rinsing dishes in the sink. He looks over his shoulder and Dev nods.

“Very well. The key is in my office off the pantry, on a hook; there’s a wheelbarrow inside the shed; the van is parked on the south side of the house and unlocked. Eight of the dozen bags of black mulch need to be carted around to the rose bushes along the far south arbor. The remaining four ought to go to the small rose bush plot in the sculpture garden. If memory serves, there’s a spare pair of gloves in shed hanging by the trowels. I’ll meet you out there.”

“Alfie,” Dev says, finding his voice. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Alfie answers. “I ought to be thanking you.”

Outside, Dev takes the wheelbarrow all the way to the van and then leaves it by the open back doors. He tosses his folded sweater onto the passenger seat and rolls his sleeves up, the brisk late March breeze raising goosebumps along his arms.

The wintry smell is giving way to loamy thaw and the mulch is thick with the nose-stinging tang of manure and pasture. When he drags the first bag from the pile and throws it into the wheelbarrow, the pull on his arms is a pleasant tension.

Alfie comes out with shovels after Dev’s first trip to the south arbor and Dev gives the older man the wheelbarrow and then shoulders two of the bags for the garden. The burden of their weight eases burdens submerged inside him and the scratch of the coarsely chipped wood through the stretched plastic against his neck is a discomfort that he can tolerate.

He drops the bags into the dun grass, limp with winter age and sleep, and heads back to the arbor wall.

Alfie is kneeling at the bushes in an apron, scooping a spoonful of exposed earth into a small bottle. He gives the bottle a shake and hands it up to Dev.

“There’s a meter in that tote. Measure the pH if you wouldn’t mind.”

Dev finds the small black device and uncaps the distilled, murky water to stick the probe in.

“Six point six,” he reads off.

“Perfect,” Alfie says. “And now we mulch.”

Alfie slices two bags open lengthwise with a pair of shears from his apron and Dev hands him one of the shovels.

“Anywhere within the rock border,” Alfie says, the shovel propped against his shoulder while he tugs on a pair of gardening gloves. “Cheerio.”

Dev shovels mulch and rakes it level with the side of the shovel, lifting and spreading for thirty minutes without a word. At first, he thinks of his da’s face, his lip bleeding and swelling, his body sprawled on the funeral home carpet; it fades with every shovelful until all he’s thinking about are the black shreds of wood and the heft of the shovel and the sweat prickling across his back beneath his chilled shirt and the iciness of the Sind River on his toes with rocks beneath his feet.

“My naani,” he says suddenly, as Alfie pats down a pile of mulch. He clears his throat because his voice was rough with disuse and too thick and low. When he tries again, he sounds more like himself to his ears.

“My naani and I would go for walks along the river when I’d visit her. One year, I ignored her warning about a slick boulder and I slipped and fell in. Just in the shallows on some rocks, but my shoes and clothes were soaked and it was nippy out. We had to go back to the house so I could change and I remember being surprised she didn’t shout at me or tell my naana to let him deal with me. She wrapped me in a blanket and let me spend the rest of the day looking at books while my shoes dried.”

Dev stops to wipe sweat off his brow and tear open another bag of mulch, ripping the plastic with the blade of the shovel. The cut isn’t as neat as the one clipped by shears but it gets the bag open.

“She sounds lovely,” Alfie says, working some mulch around the border of the rose plot with his hands.

“She was.”

Dev leans on the shovel and looks at what work is left: they are nearly halfway through the landscaped portion by the arbor and the sculpture garden waits behind them. He starts shoveling again and once again, sees his da’s face.

“I know you said you weren’t upset with me,” Dev says, carrying the full shovel to the other side of the bushes. “But I bloody am. I’ve never been a violent man. I understand it in others, but it isn’t me. I’ve worked hard to make sure it wasn’t. I fix things. I fix people. If I harm, it’s to work toward mending. I don’t break people just for the bloody hell of it. I mean, sod it all, I know that isn’t what Wayne does. It’s not even what I did. I’d a reason in the moment. And I’m glad if it helped Tyler or Kam, but I think I’ll always regret hitting him.”

“I don’t think that’s an improper way to feel,” Alfie says gently. “I think you’ve been careful to ensure you are his antithesis.”

“I inherited his fucking mouth, if nothing else,” Dev says, a little bitterly and for emphasis. “But you’re right, I have. Even when I thought he was only strict, I never wanted to be the sort of man who wounded those about me. And it doesn’t make a difference that it was him that I hit. It still feels like a sodding betrayal of everything I’ve worked to make myself.”

“I don’t think you in danger of a complete regression or personality change,” Alfie says, shaking loose bits out of a nearly-empty bag. “If that’s what worries you.”

“No,” Dev says, holding the shovel still for a moment and looking up at the older man. “I just wanted someone to know it wasn’t exactly a triumph for me. And I rather think it ought to have been, and Leena certainly thinks it was, but I can’t bloody bring myself to feel that way.”

“Well, then,” Alfie says. “What’s done is done. Just know I hardly think you’ve ruined your life’s work. You’re still very much the man you were a week ago, in the ways that matter. Even if you don’t feel it today.”

“I should thank you,” Dev says, bending to scoop more mulch. He glances over at Alfie, who is cutting open another bag. “I don’t know if I could have borne your rebuke and my own together.”

Alfie tucks the shears away and pats Dev’s shoulder before reclaiming his shovel from the grass.

“Kiran,” he says, “I’m rather fond of you. I hope you know.”

Dev nods and they work together until the entire bank before the arbor wall is covered in the dark, damp mulch.

Alfie hums as they gather empty bags and supplies to move to the garden.

“What song is that?” Dev asks, both shovels propped against his shoulder as he walks.

“Oh, what?” Alfie asks, as if he is surprised he was humming aloud. “Hm. It’s a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem I found set to music several years ago. Tending the roses in late winter always makes me think of it. Though, I suppose it’s properly spring now.”

“What poem?” Dev asks.

“ _No_ _Storms Come_ ,” Alfie answers. “Wait a moment. No, that’s the song. The poem is _Heaven Haven_. Hmm,” the older man closes his eyes, thinking, and then recites with precisely enunciated words, his voice warm and mellow,

“ _I have desired to go_  
 _Where springs not fail,_  
 _To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail_  
 _And a few lilies blow._

_And I have asked to be_   
_Where no storms come,_   
_Where the green swell is in the havens dumb,  
And out of the swing of the sea."_

“Anyway,” Alfie says after another moment. “This late March weather always brings it to mind.”

“That’s lovely,” Dev says, and he means it, even though he doesn’t feel like he usually quite gets poetry.

There’s the buzz of a mobile alarm and Alfie takes a glove off to slip his out of his apron.

“And I must be off to retrieve Master Damian from school. You can leave all this; I’ll finish when I return.”

“Do you mind if I keep working, actually?” Dev asks, looking around at the few bushes among the garden.

“Hm,” Alfie says, looking around with him. He takes his other glove off and tucks them both under his arm. “Measure the soil pH if you don’t mind; if it’s between 6.5 and 6.8 you can mulch it all, but if not, I’ll need to put down lime again and the mulch will have to wait.”

“Right,” Dev says, grabbing a distilled water bottle from the tote next to the mulch bags. “Leave it to me.”

“Plan to stay for dinner, Kiran,” Alfie says a little sternly as he unties his apron and lifts the loop over his head. “I’d not sleep well if I worked you all afternoon and didn’t feed you properly.”

“I can feed myself,” Dev protests. “I’ve kept myself alive for years. But I’ll stay if you insist.”

“Your enthusiasm is staggering,” Alfie says with a dour, straight-lipped expression and a wry smile in the corners of his eyes. “The Manor has never witnessed such exhilaration.”

“I’m holding back,” Dev tells him. “I live for your dinners. I sit at home and weep thinking about the ones I miss.”

“That’s more like it,” Alfie says with a nod. “I’ll return shortly.”

Dev doesn’t watch him go; he turns to the soil right off and scoops a bit into the bottle, shakes it, and measures. The meter reads 6.7 so he takes up a shovel again.

The work doesn’t feel especially profound or significant; he doesn’t muse about plants or growth or life. But the turmoil in him is quelled a good bit by the time with Alfie and the spring wind and the words of the poem turning over in his mind in fragments, reduced to the litany of syllables and Alfie’s voice.

And the scrape of the shovel as he bends and scoops, the lift of the load that pulls on his limbs, the tipping of the mulch into the dirt beneath the thorny tangle of bush– they lull him into a serenity that persists through the afternoon, carries him through dinner and into the late evening when, exhausted but calmed, he drifts into deep sleep.


	36. a break from routine. w/damian wayne. 21 april. vernon state park.

The grass is sending up fresh green shoots, short and spiky around the decorative boulders in the tiny yard outside his flat. The tree branches are tipped with hard, pale buds streaked with the dark veins of plant life.

Dev is sitting in his car with a two-tonne weight on his chest.

And it startles him, because the whole first week back in the States after the funeral he was cradled in a kind of detachment about his mum’s death and he thought it was a sign that he’d already moved on. There were other things about himself and his da that he dealt with and resigned himself to, and he thought he’d dodged this bullet entirely. But instead, it is revealing itself to only be the initial shock of things, and he is not over it, he is not moved on. This is not a process he is spared and only three weeks into the first pangs of it, he’s ready for it to just go away.

It comes out of nowhere, it seems, this grief that comes whipping and howling around the landscape of his interior life. There are times when it is influenced by outside events-- seeing a Mother’s Day card left behind on a shelf when he is buying cereal, an overheard exchange between a mother and her child at a restaurant.

But more often it is disconnected from life outside him and the world feels like it’s leaving him behind, racing on ahead while he is paralyzed.

It grips his heart and he has to bite his tongue to keep an animalistic howl from rising from his throat. He sits mute and motionless more times than he cares to admit, and after an entire adult life of limited contact with his mum it seems like utter bollocks.

It is not a missing her, exactly, this rending wound that breaks open again and again. It is twisting and strangling and difficult to pin down.

One moment, his grief will be hot and angry: _How dare she, how dare she not say anything to him, to someone?_ and it comes with memories of her leaving for other rooms, taking the girls out, looking the other way. Just when he thinks it will consume him and he will go down swinging in a fiery, indignant rage, the rug will be jerked from beneath his planted feet and he will find himself flat on his face in the mud of memory: of her making phirni for him with rice dust on her arms, of her taking him for new trainers, of her walking to the park hand in hand, of her fixing his stubborn hair in the hall before dinner.

It is difficult to say what he grieves more, the death of his mum or the loss of his childhood. They are too intertwined to neatly separate, and he finds himself bowled over by one thing only to realize a second later he is thinking about another.

He does not cry. He finds it impossible to allow himself to weep for this or for her. He knows it would be healthy to, but despite everything, he can still feel his father’s scorn and this also makes him angry. His skin and skull have healed but over and over he is finding reopened inner wounds, all the ways he feels crippled and adrift. He cannot mourn without fury there, hand in hand.

So he has not cried since outside of the funeral home, and that wasn’t exactly for his mum.

He lets the grief wash over him, his eyes and throat shut up against it, while it batters against him like the waves of the sea at Broadstairs or drags him like the currents of the Sind River or cradles him like the depths of Lake Vernon, and it is the same whether he is battered or dragged or cradled: he is drowning.

He is not avoiding Wayne Manor exactly-- he goes when he is needed, he goes for tea, he goes for gaming with Timothy. He manages conversations and meals. The framing of ordinary routine marks his days, so even when he resents the passage of time he has a way to mark it.

But he is losing himself in surgeries, taking more and more cases from those who send queries to the hospital from out of town and out of state. He finds he is untouched by grief or its assault in the consuming concentration of surgery.

And to be safe in surgery, he needs sleep.

So he has been sleeping and slicing open heads, spending ten hours in bed and then drilling into skulls.

Surgery and sleep and routine.

Until right now, today, sitting in his car with the weight of oceans on his chest and a text message from Damian Wayne of all people, a message that just says,

_I require your assistance if you are available. I need transport to Vernon State Park ASAP._

Dev takes a deep breath that does little to relieve the pressure and he replies,

_I’m free. I’ll be right there._

He drives to Wayne Manor instead of his lab.

Damian Wayne is standing on the front step of the Manor with a cat carrier at his side. The boy is getting taller; Dev thinks he’ll catch up to Timothy in a year or so at the rate he’s going. When Dev brakes and shifts the car into park, he leaves the engine on and Damian wordlessly takes the passenger seat with the carrier on his lap.

Dev peers inside. It’s a squirrel. He looks over Damian and notices a bandage on the boy’s hand.

“I have been rehabilitating this squirrel after finding it injured,” Damian says, snapping the seat buckle. “This morning it bit me and I have been informed that I will not be allowed to keep it.”

“It’s a wild animal,” Dev says, eyeing the creature. It tuts at him, its body pressed against the far side of the carrier. “Let me see your hand.”

“Pennyworth took care of it,” Damian says, not offering his hand. “And the animal is not rabid.”

“Alright,” Dev says, not in a mood to insist. The boy seems like he’s in a bad mood himself.

They’re ten minutes into the drive when Damian says, a little stiffly, “Thank you for the ride and for promptly returning my text.”

“No worries, mate,” Dev says and he means it. He hasn’t made the trip to Vernon for weeks and just the fact that they’re headed in that direction settles him some, the pressure on his chest easing as they leave the city. “We should hike for a bit before we let it go.”

“I have worn appropriate footwear,” Damian says, and Dev leans to glance down while on a straight stretch of road. The boy has black boots on, laced tightly. “I have also brought my sketching materials if you wish to stay longer to make the drive worth your time.”

Dev watches the road while they go around a turn and then looks over at Damian. The boy has been having tea with Dev and Alfie whenever he isn’t busy at school and Dev has been watching a shift in him the past few months. His language has been growing, if anything, more formal with age but his consideration for others has been growing to match it.

For the first few months Dev knew him, Damian seemed most like Wayne out of anyone in the house, but recently the boy has been reminding him more and more of Alfie and it suddenly strikes him that it might be an intentional emulation.

He decides to test the theory right there.

“That’s the kind of consideration I’d expect from Alfie,” Dev says to him, watching sidelong to see the response. “Are you sure you’re quite well?”

A brief smile tugs at Damian’s mouth and then he bends forward to look at the squirrel.

“Tt,” is all he says.

They pull into the gravel car park of a smaller trailhead at Vernon and Dev changes into his hiking boots while Damian looks around, the carrier in his hand and a canvas satchel on one shoulder. Up here, it’s a bit chillier and the buds on the trees are still hard little brown knots.

Dev slings his backpack on after checking it for water bottles and says, “Alright, mate. Let’s go.”

They hike the trail for ten minutes before they come to a small clearing and Dev slows.

“Here?” he asks, and Damian looks around and nods. He sets the carrier down and opens the metal door. The squirrel bolts out and then stops just a few feet away.

“I think he’s confused, mate,” Dev says, frowning at the squirrel sitting near the cat carrier, not making any move to flee their presence.

“Tt,” Damian agrees. “Perhaps if we put him in a tree.”

They look around. The trees here are old and the branches are high. One has an abandoned hole up in a fork between two gnarled limbs.

“That one would be suitable,” Damian says, pointing. Dev looks at it and then down at Damian.

“You know, you could bloody well just set him there yourself if…”

Dev trails off; he’d been so focused on the practicality of a quick solution he’d nearly forgotten who he was talking to.

“If what?” Damian demands.

"If you stood on my shoulders,” Dev finishes, knowing he might as well and how much it infuriates him when others won’t finish thoughts. But to his great surprise, instead of scorn, the boy nods.

“Agreed. Please crouch down by the tree.”

Dev does so, bracing himself for the boy’s weight, and when Damian steps on his left and then right shoulders Dev realizes the boy took his boots off and his socked feet are not nearly as uncomfortably digging as rubber tread would have been.

Dev grunts as he stands up and Damian balances without much show of effort. The squirrel is deposited on the branch and then Damian drops to sit on Dev’s shoulders.

“This is fairly high,” Damian observes.

“Want me to walk for a bit? Let you look about?” Dev offers, now bracing himself instead for the sharp refusal.

“Yes,” Damian says simply.

Dev uses one foot to nudge the abandoned boots over toward the carrier and discarded backpacks and then takes off down the trail with Damian still perched on his shoulders.

They go for another ten minutes before Dev relents to his spine’s protest.

“Oi,” he says, “sorry, Dame, but we’re going to have to go back for your bloody shoes. I’m getting an ache in my neck.”

The boy slips easily off his shoulders in the same second.

“I can walk without boots,” he says.

“Certain?” Dev asks, rubbing one shoulder. “I can make it back to the clearing.”

“I am certain,” Damian asserts. “Thank you. It was pleasant to see the trees from that angle. <Do you miss your mother?>”

Dev starts. He doesn’t know which surprises him more-- the question or the fact that it was in Urdu.

“I didn’t know you spoke Urdu,” he says in English.

“I speak many languages,” Damian says. “It has been a consistent subject of my training.”

“I’m worried about your feet,” Dev says. “Bloody hell, at least let me piggyback you back up to the boots. It’s my own fault we went so far.”

“I am reluctant,” Damian says, “but the leaves are wet.”

Dev half-crouches and Damian acquiesces and clambers onto his back. The weight is easier to bear, going up the gentle slope bent slightly as he walks.

“<I don’t know if I miss her,>” Dev says in Urdu when they’re halfway there. “<What makes you ask?>”

“<You have appeared sad. I was confused because I had been led to believe you were not on good terms with her.>”

Perhaps it is Damian’s habit of precise English, but it’s not until they’re speaking in Urdu that Dev realizes how functional the boy’s language is-- he translates easily and without idioms, stilted perhaps, but retaining the same manner across the language transition.

“<I miss some things,>” Dev admits. “<I miss how I wanted her to be, I think.>”

“<Sometimes, I miss my mother,>” Damian says. “<She is alive, as far as I am aware, but I am not sure that it is appropriate for me to miss her given the circumstances.>”

Dev doesn’t actually know much about Damian’s mother or his past, only that the boy has many scars that do not have explanations in the medical files in the Cave, and that in over a year of being with the family he’s never seen or met her.

“<I think you can> bloody well feel however you sodding want,” Dev says. “<That’s about you,> mate <not her.>”

Internally, Dev feels himself recoil with the hypocrisy of his own words. He knows how bottled up he is inside, he has not lied to himself on this point. He shifts Damian’s weight, resecuring his grip under the boy’s knees.

If they weren’t in the woods with the familiar crunch of leaves and twigs and trail underfoot, Dev would think he was dreaming, because Damian sighs and rests his head on Dev’s shoulder.

“<I have been assured it is healthy to display signs of emotion, despite my early training.>”

“<It is,>” Dev agrees, his duplicity like a break in his oxygen line. He feels it like a strong and dragging tide. “<I’ve articles. Did you know crying has an> amnestic function?”

“Tt,” Damian says.

“Don’t sodding scoff at me,” Dev says gently. “It’s true. <When you cry because you’re sad, or upset> the tears have a higher protein content. Your body is shedding stress hormones and your limbic system-- your hypothalamus-- and your autonomic nervous system are going well mental. And they’re full of leucine enkephali, which is a natural pain-reliever. It’s your body’s self-treatment mechanism. Even if your brain remembers why you started off, you feel better because the nervous system and the parts of you that store or handle stress hormones have been drained and numbed.”

He sets Damian down by the boy’s boots and their bags and the empty carrier. The squirrel peers down at them from inside the tree, chittering gently at their return.

“So it’s a purely human function,” Dev says. “Not masculine or feminine. The only ones excluded are androids. Maybe aliens, I don’t know. Except Clark cries so that’s at least one alien.”

“Tt,” Damian says again and somehow it’s a noise of consideration rather than dismissal.

“<That doesn’t make it any easier, though,>” Dev says, scraping at some leaves with his boot. Damian’s fingers falter in the knot he’s tying and after a moment he resumes looping the lace.

“<No, it doesn’t,>” the boy says. He glances up at Dev and then looks back down at his boots. “<Do you need to talk? About your mother?>”

“Oh, probably,” Dev says a little savagely, sitting down next to the boy on the forest floor. The squirrel is still chatting at them from the branch above. “But not to you. You’re twelve and probably need to talk to someone yourself. I can listen but I couldn’t let you do the same for me, however much you’re about to protest your own adolescence. Thanks for asking, though, mate.”

“I’m thirteen,” Damian says stiffly. “My birthday was last week.”

“Oh, shite,” Dev says, putting a hand to his eyes. “You’re right. I even updated your file for the date. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even bloody say anything. Happy birthday.”

“<Don’t worry. You did not miss a party. I went out for dinner with Father and that was all. I have conflicted feelings about my own birthday.>”

“<That makes two of us,>” Dev says. He lies back on the leaves and looks up at the cloudless blue sky, his head pillowed by his hands.

“<I am going to sketch,>” Damian says, unzipping his bag. “<Unless you wish to leave.>”

“Go for it,” Dev says. “<Wake me up if I fall asleep.>”

He stares at the azure sky, ringed in his vision by bare tree branches and the ragged, pine-capped mountains, and it is like being underwater looking up at the surface of the ocean he is sinking in.

Dev sits up. He stands.

“You alright for a bit by yourself?” he asks Damian, looking down at the boy and the sketch pad with the very beginning of a sketch. The lines are still too abstract for Dev to determine what the shape will be.

“I will be fine,” Damian says, flicking eraser crumbs off the paper. “I am not a–” he stops and glances up at Dev, who is tapping the toe of boot on the trail and after a brief second of eye contact, turns from the boy to scan the horizon.

“<I will be fine.>” Damian says.

“There’s water and granola in my bag. Help yourself. I’ve my mobile if you need me.”

Dev can feel Damian’s eyes on him as he hikes down the slope. There’s a kilometer and a half between himself and the lake and he makes it three-quarters of the way there before hot tears are stinging the corners of his eyes.

He stops in the middle of the trail, listening and waiting and feeling, to see what will happen and ready to cram it back down his throat if there’s anyone nearby. He hears nothing but birds and wind and the rustle of animal life.

And the next wave in his chest is like frigid water thrown over him and when he tries to take a breath he’s drowning and it doesn’t matter if he’s missing her or furious with her or damaged by his da.

Dev is weeping, already hard enough to need to sit in the middle of the trail. It’s raging out of him without control and every last reserve he has against it is gone, and it doesn’t matter if anyone is nearby anymore.

And then sitting is not enough, his limbs are not enough, and he is bent forward with his legs tucked under him as if to hold himself together. But there is no together to be had; the sobs that wrench him gut from spine are implosive like a black hole and suck him to pieces.

He doesn’t even know what he’s thinking about. The thoughts have no structure, no rational attachment to what his body is doing when they do come, and for several minutes he thinks of sodding nothing at all.

He was once in a car wreck during med school, sitting in the passenger seat with a plastic crate of textbooks in his lap for a mate when they were slammed from behind and sent with a jerk into the bumper of a stopped lorry. The crate, heavy with densely bound thin paper and stiff bindings, had caught between him and the dash of the car, unyielding against his chest and abdomen. The smash up hadn’t been that bad, considering, but for days afterward he’d not been able to take a deep breath without wincing. In the moment of impact, however, he’d thought himself dead, that he’d never breathe again.

That is what this feels like.

Then there is the moment he is reassembling after the black hole, lost somewhere on the other side of the universe of things he knows or understands.

He grows quiet except for a soft rattling in his throat that will not stop even as he breathes, and breathes, and breathes just to prove to himself that he can and he’s not killed by it yet.

Finally, with resigned effort, he sits up. He is shattered. He stumbles to his feet and trudges the last bit of trail to the lake, where he crouches on the shore and splashes icy water on his face and breathes again, deeply for what feels like the first time in weeks.

The Wayne cabin is far off in the distance across the lake and he studies it for a few moments and then runs his fingers through the water once more and rises to his feet.

The grief still drags at his limbs, it drips off of him in rivulets, but he is on the banks of it again and for right now he is no longer drowning.

And he does feel better; not fully well, but better than he has for days. He climbs back up the slope, making the trek on steady legs until he reaches the clearing where he left Damian.

The boy is sitting and sketching still, the lifelike form of a squirrel beneath his fingers. The bandage on his hand is smeared with black where he must have rubbed at the charcoal on the paper for shading.

Dev sits next to him and takes a water bottle from the bag.

“<Was your hike pleasant?>” Damian asks without looking up.

“<Something like that,>” Dev says, suspended between a good mood and fragility. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

The boy doesn’t answer for a few minutes, and when he does answer, he flips his sketchbook closed.

“I’m ready,” he says.

“Can I take you out for dinner?” Dev asks. “A belated second birthday?”

Damian considers as he packs his supplies back into his bag.

“I will have to inform Pennyworth or Father,” he says. “But that would be acceptable. Where should I tell them we are going?”

“That’s up to you, mate,” Dev says. “Your pick of the city or sod it, driving distance even.”

Damian is smiling when he types out texts on his mobile. He nods and says, “There were no protests from either of them.”

“Well, then,” Dev says, adjusting his backpack straps. “Let’s go. Where are we off to?”

“The car,” Damian says dryly, stepping ahead of him on the trail.

“Damian Wayne,” Dev says after him, “I can take that sort of thing from Alfie but not from you.”

“What sort of thing?” Damian asks, looking back at him with a falsely innocent expression.

Dev drives forward and scoops the boy off the ground and over his shoulder. He takes another two steps surprised that he even got as far as he did.

“Why aren’t you fighting?” he asks, a bit worried. “You could have thrown me over by now.”

“<I am preparing to force myself to cry,>” Damian says in a completely calm voice. “<I am going to tell those hikers behind us that you have kidnapped me.>”

“Bollocks!” Dev yelps, dropping the boy to the ground like a hot coal. Damian lands on his feet, nonplussed. Dev whirls around to look, but no one is there.

“There are no other hikers,” he says flatly.

“No,” Damian says, grinning. “But I have been improving my tactics.”

“You sodding little plonker,” Dev exclaims, looking down at him and then pointing down the trail. “You’ve not gotten yourself out of dinner. March. Ahead of me, where I can see you.”

When Damian faces forward, Dev gives the back of his head the middle finger.

“I’m telling Pennyworth,” Damian says without turning.

“The bloody hell you are,” Dev grumbles, knowing the boy might actually.

“Would it be possible for us to get pizza?” Damian asks when they get to the car.

“Anything, mate. Whatever you want,” Dev tells him, tousling his hair. Damian doesn’t pull away. “Just tell me where to go.”


	37. waaaaayne. 29 april. cave.

* * *

Dev is sitting at his office desk in the hospital a week after taking Damian to dinner when he gets a text from Wayne that just says,

_C 9pm. Workout clothes._

He reads it twice and then shoots back, _Was that for me?_

 _Yes_ is all he gets in response.

A moment later, the mobile rings and Dev answers.

“You do have clothes you can work out in?” Wayne asks without greeting. “Even at the pool this past summer, you were in slacks.”

“I came straight from the bloody hospital!” Dev says in his own defense. “And I wasn’t planning on swimming. Bugger me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Shorts? A shirt without buttons?”

“Yes, yes,” Dev says irritably. “A inquisition about my wardrobe wasn’t exactly what I’d expected today.”

“No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Wayne says and hangs up.

Dev stares at the mobile in his hand. Sometimes it is easy to forget the man had been raised by Alfie, and then other times it is glaringly obvious.

And he didn’t even get to ask _why_ he is getting this summons.

When he does arrive at the Cave that night, in the gym shorts and a Portal t-shirt he usually lounges around his flat in, he’s full of dread. Even with the muscle he’s built the past year lugging that sodding medkit around and lifting unconscious Waynes, he’s a lightweight compared to this family. He’s more than once stood next to the bench press equipment staring in startled horror at the notations adding up to seven hundred pounds, and then sat at the medbay forcibly keeping his mouth from hanging open while Wayne did reps, _reps_ , with the same set.

And Dev isn’t entirely certain he could get through more than a few chin-ups if his life depended on it.

Wayne is on the mats taping his fists and otherwise the floor is free of equipment.

“Good,” he says, looking up, “you came.”

Dev throws his bag into the medical unit by the counter and goes slowly down the steps onto the mats, his dread increasing as he realizes.

“I’m not going to hit you, mate,” he says right off, feeling like he might as well just get it over with. There’s no bloody point in dancing around it.

“No,” Wayne agrees, “you aren’t. But Alfred has been dropping hints for weeks now and I’ve decided he’s right. Do you know how many times the Cave has been compromised?”

“Uh, no,” Dev says, looking around. If there’s anywhere in the whole of Gotham he’s always felt absolutely safe, it’s here.

“Too many times,” Wayne says. “And the Manor, too. Tim and I keep upgrading security but nothing is perfect. So you aren’t going to hit me. But you’re going to learn how to keep me from hitting _you_.”

“Eh,” Dev says, hanging back by the steps. “I can develop my own methods, thanks.”

“Dev,” Wayne says seriously, “You’ve already met Zsasz. And anyone who gets past us into the Cave is going to be just as bad, or worse. I know it’s uncomfortable for you and I wouldn’t insist if I hadn’t come to agree with Alfred. This could be life or death. I’d be irresponsible if I didn’t do everything in my power to insure you could, at the very least, hold your own in an emergency. I should have done it months ago.”

“I could just pretend to be dead,” Dev offers, taking a few steps to the center of the mat. “Drug myself and fake it.”

“You know that’s hardly safe or effective,” Wayne says.

“I know,” Dev sighs. “Alright, then, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do?”

Wayne looks him up and down, and under scrutiny, Dev straightens and sets his shoulders. If nothing else, he’ll maintain some semblance of his dignity.

“First,” Wayne says, “You’re taller than any of the non-metas, and if it’s a meta you should just pretend to be dead. But anyone else. You could be intimidating if you held yourself the right way. So throw back your shoulders. And you have a terrifying mouth, so use it. Don’t second guess yourself there. Barry had a point. Gotham’s rogues aren’t used to us swearing at them, not the way you do it.”

“You think my mouth is terrifying?” Dev asks, startled.

Wayne raises an eyebrow at him.

“Why do you think I listen to you?” he asks and Dev can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

He’s tense all over and drumming his fingers on the side of his leg.

“I’m not going to hit you, Dev,” Wayne says gently. “I’m just going to show you how to stop me. We’ll go slow.”

Dev takes a deep breath and nods.

“Bloody fucking hell, let’s get on with it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Wayne says with a slight smile. “More of that. Alright, hand up here.”

He reaches out and directs Dev’s hand into position in front of his face.

“Watch my feet,” he says. “Even a clumsy lackey is going to lead by shifting his weight before he hits. If you know what to look for, you can know which direction it will come from before the arm is moving forward.”

They work for an hour, moving slowly and with lots of pauses for explanations, and by the end of it, Dev is sweating even if they never picked up the pace much. It helps that despite his usual gruffness and authority, Wayne turns out to be a rather calm and patient teacher.

“Get some water,” Wayne says, after Dev blocks two punches and a kick in succession. They were soft blows, controlled and precise like every one of Wayne’s examples, but Dev still sighs in relief.

“Sod it all,” he mutters, climbing the steps to the medical unit and grabbing a water bottle.

“That was a good start,” Wayne tells him, already moving through a rehearsed martial form on the mats. “We’ll take a day off and then work again. How’s your sister? Alfred said you went to visit again.”

Dev groans.

“Rani is fine. Kids are lovely. What do you mean a day off?”

“You didn’t think this was a one time thing?” Wayne asks in reply. “I’m going so easy on you that I wouldn’t even let Damian in the Cave tonight. We’re going to work until no one can touch you. You’ve got the speed in your hands, we just need to get it into you overall.”

Dev sits in the wheeled office chair and spins idly back and forth and whinges, “What if I refuse?”

“I’ll fire you,” Wayne says casually.

“You can’t fire me,” Dev retorts.

“I’ll dock your pay,” Wayne says, holding himself up on the ball of one foot with his other leg extended in a frozen kick. He’s maintaining his balance as he speaks.

“Dock _what_ bloody pay?” Dev says, “Not everything can be fixed with money, you know.”

And Dev has the satisfaction of seeing Wayne, who he has watched workout or train countless times, stumble. He spins to look at Dev after catching himself, his eyes narrowed.

“We do,” he says, and then he stops. “Alfred surely,” he stops again. He frowns. “Dev. Are you telling me you’ve worked for us for a year now and we haven’t paid you?”

“Who pays you?” Dev demands. “The city? The police?”

But Wayne is already at the computer, pushing a button and saying, “Alfred, come down here. Right now, please.”

Dev drains the water bottle while scowling around the medical unit. It’s like home to him, this little corner of the Cave. He knows exactly where everything is and the smell is like the hospital but not quite. The idea of being paid to be here, in this place, treating who he treats, is insulting. The hospital is a job, as much as he loves it, but this has become his life.

The lift doors open and Alfie steps out into the cave, a worried frown on his face.

“No emergency,” Wayne says right off, holding a hand up. “But did you know we haven’t been paying Dev?”

“I thought you had arranged things,” Alfred says, startled.

“I thought you did,” Wayne replies. They both turn to look across the Cave at Dev.

“You aren’t bloody paying me!” he says.

“We owe you, what, a year of salary?” Wayne says as if he didn’t hear. His voice is suddenly business-like, clipped with efficiency as if he’s in a board room. He’s looking at his mobile, scrolling through something. “I don’t even know what exactly to consider you. Alfred, do you know how much the Bartons pay their family doctor? They’re the only family I can think of that has one anymore.”

“I’m not certain,” Alfie says, “but I doubt it would be hard for you to find out. They likely have him on retainer rather than salary.”

“Hn,” Wayne says to this. “And this is more than standard family care.”

“Hullo,” Dev says from his chair, “you aren’t paying me.”

“I know,” Wayne snaps. “That’s the problem.”

Dev stands.

“I’m going to shower,” he says, “in this bloody mansion I partially live in and then I’m going to sleep until there’s an emergency or the sun rises. I will not be accepting any monetary reimbursement for the work I do here, with supplies _you_ provide in the house where your da feeds me. One of your sons and your surrogate daughter now insist on calling me Uncle Dev whenever we’re in public and while it drives me mental I will use it in my favor if forced.”

“I pay Alfred,” Wayne argues, glancing to the older man for support.

The look Alfie gives Wayne tells Dev he’s won.

“Alfred,” Wayne says with some alarm, “I do pay you.”

There’s a long silence.

“I’ve been rerouting my paychecks into anonymous donations to the Gotham Stage Actors Guild for the past three years,” Alfie says quietly, looking a little sheepish. “All my food and clothing expenses were already part of the Manor’s budget.”

“But _why_?” Wayne demands.

“In case of extreme circumstance,” Alfie says with a slight shrug. “I wanted to remove the leverage of threatened dismissal. I’ve rendered it a moot point. But Kiran…”

“No,” Dev says firmly. “No, don’t bloody wriggle out of this. You’ve lent your support whether you intended it or not. Besides, I bloody have a job. One I have a morning shift at and, leaving aside emergencies, need to sleep for.”

“I can’t believe this,” Wayne says, sounding actually bemused. “Are you both telling me you won’t accept _any_ pay?”

“When Gotham starts paying you, I’ll let you pay me,” Dev concedes, knowing it’s a safe agreement.

“This is ridiculous,” Wayne protests, a little angrily. “Of all the things, Alfred, I expected…” he trails off. “I don’t even know what I expected.”

“Nobody,” Dev says seriously, knowing the argument is over, “expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

And Wayne looks at him with a fierce scowl.

But it’s cracking.

Alfie chuckles.

And Wayne laughs.

“Fine,” he says. “Have it your way. Both of you. For now. Until I figure out something else. But we’re still going to keep training, or I will change the code to the elevator and lock you out.”

Dev gives Alfie a pleading look but the older man returns his gaze sternly.

“No, Kiran,” he says, “even if it unsettles you, I am with Master Bruce on this point. It is necessary.”

“Bloody hell,” Dev sighs. “Fine.”

“Damn it, Alfred,” Wayne grumbles when Dev goes past them to the lift. “When did you get so sly?”

“I suppose the bats might have had an influence after all,” Alfie says mildly. “Turning me to a creature of the night. Or perhaps it’s the company I keep. Bad company and good character, you know.”

Dev puts a hand out to stop the lift doors, and leans back out into the room.

“Wayne,” he says, and the man looks at him, “I don’t know if you’re bloody aware, but Alfie is the Batman’s da.”

“It is true,” Alfie nods. “I see I have been found out. You may add it to my list of offenses.”

“You’re both absurd,” Wayne growls. “I’m going to suit up. Alfred, send Damian down.”

“Have fun fighting crime for free!” Dev calls as Alfie joins him in the elevator, letting the doors shut before Wayne can respond.

“Kiran,” Alfie says seriously, “you shouldn’t tease him.”

“Who the bloody hell will if I don’t?” Dev asks, noting the twinkle in Alfie’s eyes.

They step off the lift to find Damian standing in the parlor, looking at his mobile in the dark room. He looks up.

“Dev,” he says, “Father has instructed me to ask you what you would consider a fair allowance, if you’re going to insist on acting like a child.”

“Are you a child?” Dev asks him, knowing the answer.

“Tt, _no_ ,” Damian says.

“What’s your allowance then, mate?” Dev asks and the gradual understanding that dawns on Damian’s face is absolutely worth being an arse for a bit.

“ _Tt_ ,” Damian says again, typing rapidly on his mobile.

He gets as far as the East Wing bedroom before his own mobile vibrates and he looks at it. It’s just a message from Wayne that says,

_Damn it, Dev. Now Damian, too._

Dev grins but then feels an inner twinge of guilt. He honestly doesn’t want to be paid but he’s also been acting rather bloody awful about it, mostly out of a strange sense of fear, and it isn’t Wayne’s fault.

He sighs and starts to type a text, then deletes it all and strides back down the hall to the lift, thinking hard as he walks.

When he reemerges in the Cave, Wayne is at the computer with his cowl hanging down his back against the cape, reading over something on the screen. Damian is standing near the Batmobile and adjusting his gauntlets.

“Dev,” Wayne says evenly without looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” Dev says. “You were just trying to do the right thing and I was being sodding impossible.”

“Are you going to let me pay you?” Wayne asks, closing the program up on the computer and looking over at him. His face is still hard and Dev sees it as something guarded and defensive rather than angry.

“I’ll let you reimburse me for gas and travel,” Dev concedes. “I do a lot of driving back and forth. And I’d like to set up a fund to cover surgery expenses at the hospital. But the money can’t come from me or I could royally fuck up my work visa.”

“I can do that,” Wayne nods, the lines in his brow smoothing out. “I didn’t intend to insult you.”

“I know,” Dev sighs. “It’s a bloody messy thing to navigate. I don’t want to take money if I’m here as a friend, or whatever the hell I am.”

“Uncle Dev,” Damian says from across the Cave.

“Oh, not you, too,” Dev moans, glancing at him. “I’m already here with my sodding tail between my legs; don’t you start up on that shite.”

“Who else calls you that?” Wayne asks.

“Timothy and Steph,” Dev sighs. “For weeks now.”

“But it makes you uneasy,” Wayne says, looking amused. “How do they justify the connection?”

“I don’t know,” Dev says, “I think I’ve been informally adopted but I’m not sure by who.”

“Uncle would imply that you are Father’s brother,” Damian clarifies from by the Batmobile.

“I did not presume that relationship,” Dev says, going pale. He gives Damian a look that he hopes both conveys panic and _shut up_ but he’s worried it mostly just comes across as pained. He looks back at Wayne. “I just…I don’t want…I’m…”

“We're just giving you a hard time, Dev,” Wayne says, clapping his back. Damian smirks at Dev. “I don’t care what the kids call you. Exact relationship titles have never been our strong suit. I’ll set up the hospital fund.”

“Thank you,” Dev says, relieved. “I’ll help talk some bloody sense into Alfie if you want it. He does loads more work than I do.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wayne says. “Alfred isn’t easy to persuade once he’s made his mind up.”

“I’ve been an absolute arse tonight,” Dev says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t even thank you for…well, for trying to keep me alive.”

“Damian, get in the car,” Wayne orders and the boy climbs into the Batmobile. The doors hiss as they seal shut.

“I know it’s difficult for you,” Wayne says. “If you ever need a break, say the word. We’ll go as slowly as you need.”

Dev nods. He doesn’t doubt Wayne on this count.

“I think it will help,” Wayne adds, one hand ready on his cowl to pull it up. “Knowing how to defend yourself. It won’t change the past, but it shifts something in you, when you know how to stay a step ahead of the demons.”

He tugs the cowl into place and Dev grins at him, his grin belying both his internal tumult and his actual gratitude.

“Batman,” he nods.

“Doctor,” Wayne nods.

“Have fun fighting crime for free.”

“My pay is justice,” Wayne says in a gravelly voice.

“Could you be any sodding more dramatic?” Dev laughs.

“Probably,” Wayne says. “Always. I’ve been waiting a while to say that to someone.”

“I’m here to serve,” Dev gives a small half-salute. “Be safe. I’m going to sleep.”

“Slacker,” Dev hears from behind him when he walks away. He stops dead in his tracks and turns slowly.

Batman is grinning at him and then turns for the Batmobile so quickly his cape flutters out behind him as he goes.

“You are a bloody drama queen!” Dev shouts after him, mildly annoyed and a little delighted that he got Batman to smile. “I’m doing your next sutures in neon pink!”


	38. blech. 2 may. gordon's flat.

“–just go talk to her!”

The lift door opens across the Cave just in time for Dev to catch the end of Dick shouting. When Dev turns from the counter to look, he sees Wayne striding across to the computer with a furious expression and Dick close on his heels with an arm in the air.

“It won’t kill you to just _try_ ,” Dick yells and Dev watches while feeling like he should probably turn back to his work or clear his throat so they know he’s there, but he finds himself unable to.

“There’s nothing I could say to fix it,” Wayne growls without looking up at the younger man. “It’s an irrevocable difference.”

“Bruce,” Dick says, now both angry and pleading. Dev thinks the young man sounds rather close to frustrated tears. “It’s _Babs_. It’s been a year. I can’t…”

“She’s made it very clear that there are conditions and they are conditions I will not accept,” Wayne says harshly. “I’m sorry, Dick, but this one isn’t on me.”

“Yes, yes, it is!” Dick shouts, anger taking over again. Dev is still watching, twisted on his stool, his hands frozen over the sample he’s been working with. “It’s not just you but you won’t even try to fix things.”

“Damn it, Dick, I _have_ tried,” Wayne roars, finally turning to the younger man. To Dick’s credit, he doesn’t step back or flinch. Dev does and there’s a clatter as he drops the vial; a louder clatter of plastic on linoleum at his feet and he looks down.

Cassandra had been sitting on the floor with her back to the cabinet working on a Rubik’s Cube Timothy left in the medical unit and Dev had completely forgotten she was there. The cube is by her booted feet and she has both hands clapped over her ears.

He glances up at Wayne and Dick, who are both now looking toward him. Cass is hidden from their view by the gurney so they are both looking directly at him.

Wayne turns to Dick and says more quietly, but his voice is still like ice and stone, “What she’s asking is impossible. I’m sorry if you feel caught in the middle but this has nothing to do with you. It’s not your fault.”

“I know it’s not my fault,” Dick scowls. “But I have to live with the damn consequences all the same. I’m just asking you to try again. Please.”

“No,” Wayne says simply and with finality. “I’ve bent over backward trying to resolve it but what she wants isn’t something I’m willing to do. If you’re determined to play mediator, tell her she’s going to have to let it go.”

“Determined?” Dick says, his voice rising again. “I’m not determined to do anything, Bruce! God! I’m involved or I’m not talking to her at all, there’s no in-between for me. And I’m sick of it! I’m not willing to give up on her, unlike some people I know!”

Wayne is replying but Dev doesn’t hear it. Cass has reached up and is tugging on his sleeve. He looks down at her and instead of fear on her face, there is a dark fury.

“Come,” she says. “This is over.”

Dev doesn’t know what she means because the argument clearly isn’t over, but he’s more than willing to get out of the Cave. He lets Cass drag him by the arm to the licy, past Wayne and Dick, who pause again while Wayne calls, “Cass!”

She doesn’t stop or slow, but pushes Dev into the corner of the lift and jabs the button fiercely and the doors close as they can both hear Dick muttering, “Shit. I didn’t know she was–”

Upstairs in the parlor, Cass clutches his sleeve again and pulls him through the Manor.

“Kiran,” Alfie says as they go by and before Dev can muster a reply, Cass says,

“Love you. Fixing things.”

“Alright, then,” Alfie says mildly, returning to his dusting.

Cass takes him all the way to the garage and snatches a set of keys off the peg board and leads him to the Maserati.

“In,” she says, pointing to the passenger seat.

“Cass, love,” Dev says, one hand on the door. “Are you alright?”

She’s pinning her hair back with bobby pins she pulled from her hoodie pocket and she meets his eyes. She looks determined rather than upset.

He climbs into the car, adjusting the seat and sliding it back as far as it will go.

Cass sits behind the wheel and adjusts the rearview mirror and slides on a pair of sunglasses from the dash that look like they probably belong to Wayne, the frames a little too large and masculine for her face. She pushes a button and a garage door far at the end of the long room swings open.

They tear out of the garage and down the drive. Dev has to reach up and brace himself against the frame of the car when they skid around the turn into the main road, sending a spray of gravel and dust up behind him.

The Maserati speeds down the highway but Cass never seems out of control of the car. This isn’t a wild, reckless joyride, as much as Dev’s heart is thudding against his ribs. The girl’s mouth is set in a tight line and she shifts gears while keeping one hand in precisely the same spot on the steering wheel the entire time she drives.

Once in the city limits, she slows to only five miles above the posted limit and sighs in irritation every time they come to a red light. They drive deeper and deeper into a section of the city that isn’t very familiar to him, until she takes a sharp and unannounced left turn into a parking garage.

She takes the first spot, ignoring the posted sign requiring a permit, and throws the sunglasses on the dash.

Dev gets out of the car and leans against it for a moment to collect himself. He suddenly realizes he’d left all those samples on the counter. They’ll all be ruined by the time he gets back, overexposed to oxygen.

He lets Cass grab his arm again and drag him to another lift.

A few minutes later, they’re standing in front of the door to a flat and Cass pounds on it relentlessly.

There’s the sound of a bolt sliding and a woman’s voice calls from inside,

“Gee whiz, what’s the 911? It’s unlocked, Cass.”

Cass jerks the door open and inside, across the small living room the door immediately opens on, is Babs Gordon sitting with a cup of coffee at a small table.

“Oh,” she says, surprised, her expression darkening. “You.”

She’s looking at Dev.

Cass steps behind him and pushes him into the flat.

“Done!” Cass says, scowling at Babs after she kicks the door closed. “It’s too angry and it’s stupid.”

Dev has known for some time that Babs was keeping her distance from him and he never was certain why. Their contact has been minimal and strictly business-like, though he has understood for some time that she was close to the family. He had wondered at her absence from recent gatherings, noting the way that Dick and others spoke of her, but it barrels into him like a gut shot that he might be the reason.

He suddenly wants to throw up.

Dev had never meant to _displace_ anyone and he doesn’t understand why he has, only that Cass understands, and Wayne and Dick were vague and Wayne had to have known Dev was there, and Babs Gordon is shredding him into pieces with her glare.

“Cass,” Babs says tightly, “this is none of your business.”

“I’m inclined to agree with her,” Dev says, edging a bit back toward the door.

“You, shut up,” Babs says. “Don’t agree with me. I’m too pissed at you to accept it.”

And then Dev feels ire rising in him.

He didn’t ask for this. No one explained it to him.

“Don’t sodding tell me what to do,” he snaps.

“My business!” Cass insists, her lower lip trembling. All the focused determination from the drive seems to be dissipating. “You are family.”

“We are _not_ family,” Babs snaps.

“Oi, not that tone with Cass,” Dev says, putting a hand on Cass’ shoulder.

“_My_ family,” Cass clarifies in a small voice. “Not you to him. Not him to you. But mine.”

Babs softens a little when she looks at Cass and she ignores Dev, pointedly ignores him, to speak to the girl.

“Cass, this isn’t your fault or your problem.”

“It hurts everyone,” Cass insists, gathering herself. The cold in her tone is a fairly good imitation of Wayne’s. “Not islands. Land at war.”

“I’d like to know what the bloody hell your problem is,” Dev demands, trying to shift the focus from Cass. He’d thought Cass and Babs got along and it’s wrecking him, thinking he might be the reason for tension. And he’s curious. And he’s angry.

He’s lost. And he _hates_ the feeling of not understanding something.

“My problem?” Babs says, looking at him. “My problem is that you are an asshole and I don’t know what the hell Bruce sees in you. My problem is that we _already have a doctor_ and I don’t know why anybody even told you anything.”

She sounds like it’s something rehearsed, something she’s been waiting a long time to say.

And now Dev doesn’t know what to say.

“You are gone,” Cass says in protest to Babs. “You don’t come see what it’s like.”

“Don’t you dare side with him, Cassandra Cain. I’ve known you for years,” Babs says, but Dev can see the falter in her, the surprise that she doesn’t have Cass’ support.

Cass has gone pale. She is trembling next to him, and he doesn’t know if she’s going to hurl herself across the room or stamp her foot or scream.

“Not Cain,” she hisses instead. “Cassandra _Wayne_.”

Dev remembers Cass trailing her fingers across her name on the top of a thick medical file he’d had out on the counter when he’d patched her up once. She lingered on the Wayne and there had been a small smile on her face, and he remembered that it had confused him, because wasn’t she?

“I’m not picking sides,” Cass says in a low voice. “We are _done_ with stupid sides. We are _same_ side.”

And Dev is aware of how much history he doesn’t share, how much he doesn’t know or wasn’t there for, and even though Babs’ insult is ringing in his ears he’s rather inclined to agree with her– he is an arsehole and he lacks a lot of background here. He’s only known them as Batman’s family for a year now.

He’s ready to leave, to excuse himself and let things stand. He can live with hatred from a distance.

But then Cass looks up at him.

And he can see how torn she feels, how deeply upset she is even if she isn’t crying or yelling or throwing things.

“Sod it all,” he sighs. “Alright, then, what’ve you against me? Let’s go through them one by one so I can apologize properly. Wayne and Dick are already blowing up the bloody cave with a fight, I’ll not leave Cass and you at odds, too.”

“Dick and Bruce are fighting?” Babs asks. “About me?”

“Not islands,” Cass says again. “Like land at war. Not just you. Not just Dev. Not just Bruce. Not just Leslie.”

“Okay,” Babs says, skewing her mouth and giving Dev a hard look. “Okay, I’ll give you the list. First, you cussed at me and Dick when Bruce was hurt. We were worried about him and you yelled at us like we were idiots.”

“I’m sorry,” Dev says, unable to keep the hardness out of his voice. “But I was worried, too. And you were lying to me. Stairs? I’m still miffed about it. You’ve any idea how important it is that I have accurate information when I treat someone?”

Babs glares at him for a moment and then says,

“I’m not sure I accept that apology. Second, you _took over_ Dr. Thompkins facility without permission and let Bruce bully her into letting you. That is _her_ clinic and you both made her feel like shit. She’s an old and remorseful woman and you showed zero compassion or grace.”

Dev glances at Cass. He knows exactly where her scar is, even if her hair covers it, and though he was resigned to try for her sake, he feels this point so wildly out of his control that it strikes him as deeply unfair.

“I didn’t know where we were going,” he says stiffly. “I didn’t know there was anyone else. And if Dr. Thompkins is upset with me on that count, it’s not you I should apologize to.”

And even though it’s incredibly selfish, he feels monumental relief in the moment he understands that this might not be entirely him or his fault or his presence. There are older and deeper wounds or relationships at play here and he is selfish but relieved. He is also foolish and feels it, a blush rising in his cheeks at the presumption he’d had that he was important enough for the whole of the rift to be about him.

“She took Steph,” Cass says levelly to Babs. “His anger is not wrong. It hurt.”

Babs seems taken aback by this declaration from Cass, as quiet and calm as it is.

“Cass,” she says, “you know…”

“It _hurt_ ,” Cass repeats. “Not over yet. Hating Bruce is not helping.”

Babs sighs and nods, and looks at Dev again. She sounds less furious and a little weary.

“Finally, because we might as well finish, I think you’re using them and I don’t trust you. I’ve read your work. I think you saw an opportunity to have access to tech and records and you took it. And frankly, I don’t know what you could say that would convince me otherwise.”

Dev hates roller coasters. And that is what this is like. She’s sounding more open to listening but is saying the thing, out of all the things she’s said, that cuts him the deepest– and wasn’t it, after all, what he himself had insisted for months? And helplessness comes with not being able to say anything to prove her wrong.

If only she’d been about the Manor to see. He can’t go back and fix how he spoke to her or Dick Grayson to change any of it.

“And I’ve heard from Dick how you wheedled– my word– your way into his and Alfred and Tim’s good graces and I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don’t think you understand how much you’re going to hurt them when you eventually bail or publish something that exposes them all.”

Cass stiffens at his side and it’s not until he hears his own voice thundering out of him that he realizes it was in reaction to him.

“You leave Timothy Wayne the fucking hell out of this,” Dev hears himself shout. “And Alfred, too. I don’t care how well you think you sodding know them.”

And he’s tears in his eyes against his own will, thinking of the cups of tea and the needed hugs and the reasoned discussions and the hikes and gaming and steadfast company.

Babs looks taken aback.

Cass grabs his arm again and pulls him across the room to Babs and pushes him down in the chair next to her.

“Proof,” she says, pointing to his wrist.

Dev is still trying not to cry.

Bugger him, but he’s gone mad soft.

He unbuttons his cuffs, first one and then the other, and rolls them back.

“Zsasz,” Cass says as Babs looks over the scars. “For Jason.”

“I…” Babs swallows. “I knew you were there, but not that you’d…”

His eyes meet hers and he can’t figure out how else to say it, to prove that he’s not at all the person she thinks. He can handle her hatred in isolation but the idea of wounding Timothy, of someone thinking he’d do it on purpose (but hadn’t he, hadn’t he been drunk and awful?) is something he can’t let stand and can’t figure out how to protest.

“Please,” is all he can think of to say. “Please. You don’t have to like me. But I’d never…I’d not betray them. They’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And she looks once at Cass and then back at him. She looks down at his wrists and then into his eyes again.

“Okay,” she says. “Maybe I can give you a chance.”

“And next Bruce,” Cass says firmly.

“Cass, he won’t–”

“You won’t,” Cass says archly, raising an eyebrow and flipping her short hair back.

Babs makes a noise that’s between a growl and a sigh and says, “I’ll talk to him. And I want _you_ to talk to Thompkins. It’s not like she’s the only one who’s ever done anything shitty in this family. I know it was awful but we can give her a second chance. And maybe if you do, Bruce will, too.”

Cass takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

“Yes,” she says. “Will try.”

Dev starts to roll his cuffs down again but Babs reaches a hand out and puts it on his wrist.

“Wait,” she says, “do you drink coffee?”

“Not really,” he says.

“Tea? Anything?”

Cass takes a seat at the table.

“I drink hot chocolate,” she says. “With whisky.”

Her grin is impish and Babs laughs.

“Hot chocolate, yes, whisky no, you tiny Don Draper. Can I get you something, Dev? If you have some time, I’d like you and Cass to stay here and fill me in on some of what I missed. I’ve been on the comm but it seems like I haven’t been getting as full a picture as I thought.”

“Tea,” he says. He doesn’t really want to stay and talk but the way Cass is looking at him, hopeful and expectant, he can’t just leave.

“You are steady,” she says when Babs goes into the kitchen. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Cass,” he says honestly.

His mobile buzzes and he glances at it.

_Back from Hong Kong and NEED TO DESTRESS. Emergency gaming session @ your place mine or manor. Idk where u are now._

It’s been two weeks since Timothy left and Dev thinks it might be one of the best texts he’s ever gotten.

_Give me two hours. Fixing something. Manor? Also need to destress. Prepare yourself for annihilation._

Cass is typing on her mobile, too, and Babs is still in the kitchen. The reply comes a second later.

_missed ur faaaace. let’s play something co-op teams I don’t want to fight you today. Board meetings r worst._

When Babs rolls back into the room with a tray on her lap, he’s grinning like an idiot at his phone because somehow, somehow Timothy Wayne is a perfect human being.

_your wish, my command, my Fae King._

“Sorry,” he says to Babs, looking up and putting the mobile away. He takes the mug from her. “Timothy’s back from Hong Kong.”

“Best mates,” Cass says with a smirk at him.

Babs gives the both of them a look that he can’t decipher.

He sips his tea and it’s not Alfie’s by a long shot but it’s not awful either.

“Alright, then,” he says, struck by a sudden good mood. Maybe it’s possible to repair some things after all. “I’ve two hours. Where should I start?”


	39. woah. fMRI w/J'onn. 10 may. radiology lab, gotham memorial

It is three in the morning and freezing in the radiology department. The air conditioners kicked on after a week of hot weather only for the outside temperature to drop with two days of spring rain, and the interior is still pumping out freon-chilled air.

Add that to the constantly frigid temperature of the radiology department and the fact that Dev had to take off his sweater when he realized it had a metal zipper and even with his usual imperviousness to cold, he feels shivery.

Then again, it might just be excitement.

_J’onn, are you ready, mate?_

**I am prepared, Kiran Devabhaktuni.**

It is their third attempt at actually performing an fMRI scan. The first was interrupted early in the afternoon of the planned day by an emergency surgery, the second by a minor JLA crisis.

Dev already has the fiducials attached to his forehead and scalp and just finished injecting magnetic contrast dye into his arm.

_If you need to hop off, just say the word and you’re free._

**Hop off, Koran Devabhaktuni?**

_Go, if you need to go._

Dev himself wouldn’t budge for a hurricane at this point. The past two cancellations were such crushing disappointments that after the second one, he almost cried in frustration and then felt idiotic about it for hours, holed up in his office pretending to himself that he was actually working on a paper.

He shivers again and looks over to the window between the machine and the research MRI computers.

Timothy Wayne is standing on the other side, wearing glasses and a lab coat and a small fake moustache that he insisted on even when Dev said it wasn’t necessary. His hair has grown back out and he’s pulled it into a tight bun. Dev had insisted on sending pictures of it to the group chat, prompting the first ever emoji he’d ever seen from Bruce; it was just a lit match and the only message Timothy didn’t seem miffed about.

Despite Dev’s arguments against the necessity of the mustache, or any of it, really, it’s a remarkably effective transformation. The young man looks entirely different. He gives him a thumbs up and Timothy gives him the Vulcan salute and a cheeky grin in return.

Dev lies back on the table and after a moment, the machine whirs to life.

_J’onn, the scan’s begun. We’ve ninety minutes to fill. You’ve the schedule?_

**I have the schedule you provided but I am uncertain that I understand it all.**

_I’ll walk you through it. Thanks so bloody much for this, by the way._

**It is my pleasure, Kiran Devabhaktuni.**

Dev doesn’t have to concentrate on not moving. This will be the easiest MRI of his life and he’s had a few. He barely has to focus on the mechanics of talking to J’onn, though it was surprisingly tricky at first. He hadn’t anticipated quite how much stranger it would be when he couldn’t also _see_ him, and the first time they’d made contact after that time on the lake shore, he’d nearly texted Wayne to check to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating.

The first twenty minutes are all warm-up and minimal effort stuff, to establish a baseline on the scan. They chat about news and weather preferences and different foods and Dev has to keep reminding himself to calm down.

**May I ask why your primary emotion is excitement?**

_BECAUSE THIS IS BLOODY BRILLIANT._

Dev thinks the response with impulsive enthusiasm and though he is absolutely certain he has not moved in the slightest, he experiences in his head the sensation of wincing.

**There is no need to shout, my friend.**

_Sorry, mate._

Dev has an internal pause.

_Wait, J’onn, are there volumes? This conveys different volumes?_

J’onn’s voice is always so even-keeled Dev realizes he has been assuming it was some loss of regulation across the mental space. But maybe it’s just J’onn.

**Yes, there–**

_Can you hear me now?_

**Yes, I am aware that you’ve reduced the volume of your voice. It has also been twenty minutes and the schedule you provided notes we should transition to short term memory.**

_Can you read it off? I’ve not a copy with me in the machine._

And then Dev sees it in his head, the schedule he’d typed up, but it is on a computer screen that is not his own and there is a plate of cookies near the keyboard and a glass of milk and around the edges of the screen are massive windows open on black and a ball of earth and space beyond.

His stomach flips and has to suppress an actual gasp. His head swims and he feels dizzy, even lying down, as if hanging over a ledge.

**Are you alright, my friend?**

_I’m…I’m…_

Forming coherent thoughts is a challenge even when engaging in telepathy, apparently.

_Bloody hell, J’onn, are you in space? Right now?_

**I am indeed, Kiran Devabhaktuni. Is this a problem?**

_Nope, nope. No problem. Just, uh, if you could note eastern standard time somewhere for a minute ago. I’ll need to account for that in reading the scans._

**Of course.**

Dev focuses and looks over the schedule that he can still see. He ignores the hand jotting a note on paper, a hand that is not his own or even his own color.

_Short term memory, and I’m up first, mate. I want to see how my brain reacts when accessing recent memories with another consciousness present. This ought to be within the past few weeks, something that provokes either strong emotion or sensory memory._

**Very well, my friend.**

Dev opens his eyes for a moment to clear the image of the computer screen with the dark gray underbelly of the MRI machine. It seems too close to his face and he closes his eyes again quickly.

_Dev holds the habanero pepper above his mouth and makes eye contact with Steph._

_“You’re quite certain?” he asks her again._

_“Why?” she asks, smirking, “you chicken?”_

_“Eat the bloody pepper, Steph,” he says, and he bites his off the stem and chews._

_A second later his mouth isn’t on fire, it is fire. His eyes are watering but he’s swallowing and his nose is running and he grabs a tissue from the table. He manages to wipe his nose and blink the tears away and look mostly calm. Ice cream would be amazing but he can handle waiting, not making a mad dash for the freezer._

_Steph has gone scarlet and she chews, and chews, and then gags and spits the whole thing out into a napkin. She’s waving at her face and crying, saying, “oh my god oh my god Tim you said it was hot you didn’t say it was death.”_

_“Get some yogurt, love,” Dev says, coughing a little._

_“You are not human,” she splutters, gulping water. Tim puts a yogurt in her hand and she tears the flimsy foil lid off._

_Dev wouldn’t mind a glass of milk but he’s okay. His eyes water again._

_Wayne walks into the kitchen and surveys the three of them, then plucks a pepper off the plate and eats it while watching Steph spoon yogurt into her mouth as fast as she can._

_“Hn,” Wayne says, with a slight shake of his head. “That one was a little soft.”_

_His eyes meet Dev’s._

_Dev coughs again and sniffs. He matches the gaze._

_“Alfred,” Wayne calls without taking his eyes off Dev. “Do we have any bhut jolokia?”_

_“I beg your pardon?” Alfie asks, leaning his head out of the office off the pantry._

_“Ghost peppers,” Wayne says. “Do we have any?”_

_He raises an eyebrow at Dev and Dev nods, once, though he’s never had a ghost pepper and suspects one might even do him in._

_“No,” Alfie says sharply. “I am not cleaning vomit off my kitchen floor or dealing with unconscious grown men who ought to know better.”_

_“We could go to my flat,” Dev offers. “Stop at the Indian market along the way.”_

_“Alfred, what time is that board meeting?” Wayne asks, looking at his watch._

_“What time ought I say to preserve you both from stupidity?”_

_“Rain check?” Wayne asks Dev._

_Dev picks up another habanero and munches on it while Stephanie gapes at him and drinks chocolate milk through a straw._

_“Bloody hell, yes,” he says, coughing again. “Name the day.”_

Dev can see the desk and schedule again and the milk glass has been drained.

**Please clarify, was this a traumatic memory? Your emotions seem to indicate pleasure and satisfaction.**

_Oh, SOD IT ALL, I am so bloody sorry._

He hadn’t realized that the memory of the taste of the pepper would transmit and now he feels rather foolish and heartless.

**It is perfectly alright. It was an informative experience and the feeling was not as strong as you had felt it in the moment. Is it my turn, now? Are you prepared?**

Dev thinks he is but he’s not certain. They’ve talked a few times before but J’onn’s never shared a memory with him as far as he knows. And maybe he wouldn’t know, and that unsettles him.

**You are reluctant but I assure you it is safe. You will not be harmed. I will share with you a memory of similar theme that I believe is considered amusing.**

_Carry on, then. I’m ready._

Dev is ready and he is also cold. It’s frigid. He tries not to squirm on the hard table.

**J’onn is in the hallway of the Watchtower when he overhears the argument between Barry Allen and Hal Jordan. He pauses for a moment to register the details and the mood is jovial rather than angry, so he continues.**

**When he walks through the wall to the kitchen, the atmosphere shifts to fear. He does not understand. They know his abilities and have grown accustomed to them; they also knew he was due for a shift overseeing the–**

**Oh.**

**His Oreos are on the counter between them, open.**

**“I’ll buy you more, J’onn,” Barry Allen promises. “Two boxes, even, to make up for it. But Hal here said he could stack eight at a time and still get them in his mouth.”**

**“I can,” Hal insists, “if you’d just let me show you.”**

**“No, no,” Barry puts a hand over the package. J’onn sighs inside of himself when he sees how many of the exposed cookies the man touches. “If we’re going to do this, we’re gonna do it right. What’s the bet?”**

**Hal shrugs, “I don’t know. Five bucks.”**

**“Five bucks!” Barry exclaims. “What are we? Kids?”**

**J’onn gazes at the package of cookies now swarming with man-germs and considers the contest they are about to engage in and he thinks that their behavior is fairly consistent with that of earth children, based on his observations, but he does not say so.**

**“I don’t know! You pick. You’re the one who challenged me,” Hal complains.**

**“You wanted to be challenged! You were practically begging!” Barry says. “Fine. Eight cookies, not crushed; if you do it, I’ll clean and detail your car. If you don’t do it, you’ll have to…um…hm…oh, I don’t know, Hal. Wait, yes, yes, I do. I want a professional portrait of you with a cat.”**

**“I don’t have a cat,” Hal says.**

**“Borrow one,” Barry answers.**

**“Done,” Hal says, glaring. “Because I can do it.”**

**Barry moves his hand away from the cookies and Hal picks up eight of them and stacks them. He makes a show of holding them on his palm.**

**“Stop stalling,” Barry says.**

**Hal puts the whole stack in his mouth and holds them, before taking most of them back out and eating one.**

**“Please do not replace those in the container,” J’onn says calmly.**

**“Yeah, yeah,” Hal says, “Of course not. I’m gonna eat them. Spoils to the victor.”**

**“Alright,” Barry sighs. “Just gimme your car keys. I’ll come back with more Oreos, J’onn.”**

**Hal is chewing a second cookie and flinches. He puts one hand to his cheek.**

**“Ow. I think I sprained my jaw. Ow.”**

**And J’onn is delighted by a spark of understanding, a rare feeling for him and one he is constantly seeking, because he knows now why Diana Prince often rolls her eyes and he comprehends the function of a gesture that has always baffled him as an expression of annoyance and frustration. And for the first time ever, he too wishes to demonstrate this action.**

**“Barry, stop laughing,” Hal says, “really, get some ice or something, my jaw is locking up. Barry, c’mon! It’s not funny!”**

Dev is pissed but only at himself because he’s ruined the last thirty seconds of imaging with his inability to completely shut down his laughter. He is thrilled to find that, rather than being overly serious, the men he’s looked up to for so long are men he might actually get on fairly well with.

_Thank you, J’onn, honestly._

**I am pleased you found it satisfactory. Moments of discovery are very important to me.**

And Dev is startled to find he’d missed the focus of the memory. He backpedals, mentally, wondering exactly how much J’onn can see of his thought process.

_Anytime you’ve questions about us, you can ask. It won’t ever go beyond us._

**I appreciate this, Kiran Devabhaktuni. The Batman has also always been willing to answer questions but mind link provides more complete information and bypasses many barriers. May I ask if you and he ever engaged in the taste test of the ghost pepper?**

_We did and it is the bloody opposite of a pleasant memory. Plus it’s well-embarrassing for both of us, especially myself._

He and Wayne had ended up on the floor of his flat after twenty minutes while Dev had moaned, “Bloody fuck,” when he felt like he could move his tongue again. Wayne had sworn and then laughed and sworn again and finally ended up asking, “Why the hell didn’t we listen to Alfred?”

Dev realizes that even just thinking about it might be sharing it with J’onn and he catches himself abruptly.

**Are you well, Kiran Devabhaktuni? I sense you are distracted.**

_Did you not see that last bit then?_

**I possess the ability to probe into thoughts but I find it inconsiderate. I restrict myself to that which is intentionally shared in non-emergencies. It is not unlike looking the other way in a room.**

_Huh. Well, then. Long term? Would you mind marking the time again?_

**It is done. I am ready to continue.**

Dev sees a flash of the schedule again and he opens his eyes to stare hard at the MRI machine and he thinks about it, the smooth plastic and constant, whirring hum, the occasional bang of a frame taken sounding like a chair falling on a wood floor.

He tries to prepare himself for how immersive memories are when shared with J’onn, how much more real they seem. It’s harder, going far back in his history, being a child again.

He closes his eyes.

_The bowl on the table is full of sticky figs and Kiran sits staring at them and sneaking glances at his naani, who is chopping vegetables so quickly the knife looks like a blur._

_She turns to see him and shakes her head._

_“ <No, Kiran. Wait for dinner.>”_

_He sighs and puts his head in both hands; he kicks his feet against the legs of the chair beneath him._

_A breeze drifts through the house, carrying the smell of lamb and ginger and his stomach rumbles._

_She turns to him, laughing, “ <Alright, then, Kiran. Just two.>”_

_He grins and takes two and bites into the first one. His naana will come inside soon and they will eat dinner and watch a movie and it will be just the three of them, his favorite._

_Kiran chews the dried fig, the flesh tough and sweet, and he turns at a pull on his scalp._

_SHITE SHITE SHITE._

_“Ow, Leena, careful,” he whinges, swallowing the fig so fast he almost chokes._

_“Hold still, then, Sidney,” she says, irritated. “You made my fingers slip.”_

_And the taste of fig is still thick in his mouth when he looks about in horror. His naani’s kitchen is gone. The aftertaste of fig is bitterly sour and everything else has changed._

_Leena is braiding his hair into tiny, little braids; Rani cried when Leena tried to use her hair for practice, so Leena had recruited him with the promise of doing two of his chores for him. The telly is on and muted, the images on the screen shadowy and staticky._

_Sidney holds himself as still as he can, but he reaches and grabs another fig from the plastic container in front of his crisscrossed legs. It tastes sour, too. They’re in the living room and inside himself he is thinking, SHITE SHITE SHITE, but he can’t remember why or figure out why it’s a man’s voice._

_Maybe it was from programme he’d seen at Mark’s, whose da always watched things Kiran wasn’t allowed to watch at home and didn’t care if the boys were in the room._

_“Sidney, stop moving,” Leena tells him again. “Your hair is well slippery and short. Jessica’s hair is easier and she’s got loads more of it.”_

_“That’s because Jessica is Irish,” Sidney retorts, annoyed. “And her hair could hold anything, even your braids.”_

_Leena shoves his hip with one foot._

_“Do you fancy her, Sidney?”_

_“What?” he exclaims, genuinely shocked. It had never occurred to him to think about Leena’s mates as anything more than an extension of his own sister, extra bodies to tease or be miffed at. He’s a little miffed now that she’s asking. “No, Leena, I don’t fancy her. Why would I?”_

_“I don’t know, maybe because she fancies you,” Leena says, as if confiding something. “You’ve honestly never thought about it? You blew a kiss at her last week. I had to go to her mum’s flat and listen to her prattle about it for an hour.”_

_“She blew one at me first! I’d have done the same to Rani!” he protests, making a mental note to never look at Jessica again. “Tell her off, Lee, I’ve got school.”_

_“Hold still,” Leena says again. “That’s a dozen now! Almost this whole side. I think I’m getting better.”_

_Behind them, the door slams and they both jump._

_“Is da home early?” Sidney asks, bitter fig stuck to his teeth in his stilled mouth. He forces himself to swallow._

_“What the bloody hell are you doing?” his da’s voice roars in answer. So he came home already mad about something, Sidney can tell. The figs have turned sour on his lips and in his belly._

_Leena has already scrambled to her feet._

_“Sidney was helping me pra-”_

_“I didn’t ask you,” he snaps. “Kiran.”_

_Sidney climbs to his feet and turns. He’s glaring at the carpet when he answers._

_“I was helping Leena.”_

_“Leena doesn’t need help to be a girl,” the man says sharply. Kiran winces and maybe it worked, because his da leaves them both there._

_Leena and Sidney exchange a wide-eyed look and she says, “Get those out of your hair before he’s back down,” and she’s already yanking her fingers through the braids she just put in, and he starts jerking at them, too._

_“Maybe he’ll go out,” she says._

_But there are heavy footsteps on the stairs and when his da rounds the corner, he has a black box in his hands._

_The hair clippers._

_“Da,” Kiran says, taking a step back._

_But there’s already a hand on his arm and he’s being hauled to the kitchen while the man’s voice inside his head is still chanting, SHITE SHITE SHITE, and they pass a creature with green skin in the hallway that he finds himself not bewildered by._

_Kiran is slammed down into a kitchen chair and while he tries to work up the words to argue against the taste of fig on his tongue, his da plugs the clippers in and grabs the back of his neck and forces his head down._

_They run up the back of his head first, too fast and hard, digging into his scalp and wrenching at his hair. Long centimeters of black strands fall around his feet and onto his lap along with defiant, humiliated tears._

_He sits mute and unprotesting, letting his da shove his head this way and then that, until the clippers turn off and the man spits out,_

_“No fucking braids, ever again, do I make myself bloody clear? Leena has sisters and you aren’t one of them.”_

_Kiran nods, his head still bent forward._

_“What’s that, then?”_

_“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, sticky fig and tiny barbs of hair on his lips when he licks them._

_His mum walks in with baby Kamala on her hip and looks over._

_“Oh, a haircut,” she says, “ <So handsome.> A bit short but you were due for a trim.”_

_Kiran, by sheer exertion of will, keeps his chest from heaving and he says, “Thanks, mum.”_

Dev, by sheer exertion of will, keeps his chest from heaving and mucking up the whole scan and thinks,

_Shite. Sorry, J’onn. I’m so bloody sorry._

He maybe understands a little why Wayne is so resistant to this whole idea. He had absolutely not intended for his brain to take a detour into that realm of memory.

There’s a long period of silence inside his head, from both himself and from J’onn.

**It is I who is sorry, Kiran Devabhaktuni. This was not a pleasant memory for you.**

_No, no, it wasn’t._

Dev is nearly calm again but there’s an edge of the old fear clinging to his heart, like a ghost with icy chains. Still, he thinks of a cup of tea and a kind hand on his shoulder and he finds he can honestly think,

_It’s bloody awful, that memory, but it was years ago. I’m alright now, or getting there._

And it’s mostly true, except in the second after he thinks it he realizes he has no external distractions-- no activity to move to work on, no task to set his hand to, no one to look at even.

He tries internally reciting the muscles of the arm and hand in alphabetical order.

**I will attempt to provide this memory in translation but it may not be exact because of extreme differences in language. If you have questions I am more than happy to attempt explanations afterward. Shall I begin?**

_Please._

Dev hopes his desperation doesn’t carry over but then he remembers that he’s linked with an empath. And now he deeply understands why Wayne dislikes this.

But he thinks of the fMRI scans and he is buoyed by the anticipation of reviewing it all, of getting to study it and see the path of neurons across the landscape of the brain. It is enough to make him not regret.

In the next second, he is swept into memory and away from himself and his last feeling before he’s plunged into it is gratitude.

**The equation songs carry across the red ravines, climbing higher and higher in the shared computation that J’onn, young as he is, nearly understands. The discordant notes in the middle are a necessary proof function as they discount the impossible variables. When the song reaches its peak in the solution, joy and pride swell and burst from the advanced academic maths buildings and roll over the ground for miles.**

**Content, J’onn drops his lifted head onto his brother’s back and they cuddle in a tangle of limbs and wings and cranial tentacles and dorsal spikes. He is too young yet to have the barbed wingtips of his parents, but his jutting, crescent chin tucks right around the neck of his brother to snuggle down against him, and their tails curl together.**

**Ma’alefa’ak edges closer to him and J’onn throws up a guard against the world around, not to hide but to be nearer to Ma’al.**

**He feels them on the cusp of the end of childhood, that shadow-line that will rend them one from the other because he feels, he feels, he feels the darkness in Ma’al and he wraps himself around it to shield them both for just another day, another hour, another minute urging him,**

**< Come, come, know joy with me, know light, can you not hear the success father has had today? Do you not feel it already, thrumming in the fibers of us?>**

**Ma’al yawns and rolls over, flexing his wings flat against the ancient glass floor. J’onn rolls with him, his head against Ma’al’s tender belly and they are vulnerable together and invincible together because they are young blood but what could hurt them right now? There are no dark clouds on the horizon, only the warmth of success and a beautiful afternoon in the light of a dust-reddened sun.**

**Beneath him, Ma’al purrs and J’onn feels it and knows it, that the darkness is held like a thing trapped powerless in the ravines with their slick walls. It will not claw its way out yet, not now, while they are children who slumber under the Martian sky and soar under twin moons that sling around each other in mirror of them, the twins, the J’onzz brothers.**

**And J’onn sees the lake far below in the cave, he knows Ma’al’s eagerness and he answers with the cave, with the hard dive into inky black water. Decided together, they drop.**

**It only takes a moment of focus and they are tumbling down through the floor, through the rock ground beneath and straight through the mars until they spin out into the vaulted ceiling of a vast cavern, the churn of water beneath them in the buried river pouring out of a buried lake.**

**Ma’al shrieks in teasing glee and beats his wings against the air, shoving away from J’onn and J’onn pursues, feeling today a frantic need to have Ma’al near him. He snatches at him and, wings working in sync, they climb and then twist and tuck their wings. They spiral down together and hit the water hard.**

**To J’onn alone this would be merely a mild thrill but he is not alone, never alone, and Ma’al is there, the whole world is always there, and he feels and laughs Ma’al’s rapture. Instinctively, he adds this to his father, to his mother, to the whole of Mars and receives their mirth and gratitude and fondness and he presses it from himself into Ma’al, against the darkness.**

**And then they swim through a dense fog of fish and up again, they mount the cavern sky dragging wings dripping out of water. Ma’al leads and then J’onn leads, pushing ahead by turns with no need for directions when they both feel where the other wants to go and there is no disagreement.**

**It only takes a flicker of concentration to go straight up through cavern ceiling and the mars and the red rocks and back out onto the surface and into the sky but when Ma’al turns him toward home J’onn begins weeping.**

**Ma’al dives and bends and lifts so J’onn is riding on his back, nestled there among the spines of his brother’s back while he cries. It is a stinging sadness, like the nettles of the abandoned northern prairies under his skin. And Ma’al is crying, too, as he carries him.**

**Their parents reach out to them even before they arrive home, a communal agony at this darkness, this knowing of eventual disaster. J’onn is cradled in his mother’s understanding, between his brother’s beating wings, in his father’s acceptance.**

**< Belong,> he feels to Ma’al, and his parents feel it, too. He sees the blue lightning and bitter yellow clouds of thunderstorms, sees the havoc of earthquake and fire and billowing smoke and Ma’al knows it, sees it with him and J’onn aches that he cannot spare him.**

**< Belong,> he feels from his mother, to them, and they are nearly home, descending from the sun-drenched sky.**

**< Belong,> he feels from his father, to them, to Ma’al. He sees both his home with his eyes and two trees with his mind, growing young and strong with their millions of writhing feelers patting at the dirt and lifting to the moons. They grow close, they are healthy, they hold each other across the space between their roots.**

**Ma’al laughs again, because they know, they feel, that the day is not yet come and today there is success in the math songs and they will hear their father sing it to them again.**

**There is the embrace of a brother and J’onn no longer weeps but flies from his brother’s back and their feet touch the ground. He takes the walking shape and Ma’al does, too, and they are young and tall and belong here, with each other, with a mother and a father.**

**Someday, Ma’al’s darkness will take a shape they cannot trim away or restrain with ropes of thought, but until then and after then there is belonging here, in the cups of fresh ocean water their mother gives them, in the way they are clutched to their father’s breast when he says to them in their minds,**

**< We have done it, we have solved another ill in the numbers.>**

**All across the mesa the chorus of thoughts and feelings from their people are a bouquet of pictures and images of their own successes, their own dear hearts, and J’onn looks at Ma’al and says with all of them,**

**< It is light, it is good, it is light that you are loved.>**

**And Ma’al says it to him with the memory of his chin cuddled against his brother’s neck while they doze under a rusted iron sky.**

**J’onn laughs with the peace of it and they sing the maths again, the new one, the one still bright with discovery and the reward of work. What a glorious day, what a day, when he can swim with his brother who belongs, in the salt caves below the home where they are loved.**

**Together, they eat and drink and then Ma’al and his father play the game of truth-telling where they try to say a thing both true and unthought of, and Ma’al is so good at it that J’onn feels himself warmed like a summer hill with his pride.**

**J’onn is in his favorite form again and his mother, too, and she holds him while they feel the fun of the game and their affection like the breeze against the faces of yearning flowers that chatter cheerfully to them when they visit the far meadows.**

**When Ma’al and his father find an old Truth-Tell that was the first he and J’onn thought together, clever and quick and admired by their people, Ma’al sees him and J’onn sees Ma’al and together they feel it to the mesa around their house with smooth gray walls and beaming lanterns,**

**< This is him, my brother, my brother, my brother, that I love.>**

**And the mesa of houses full of their own call back to them across the packed dust of the ground, the waning day, the rise of the twin moons, in the midst of their own meals and games and giddy with the thrill of the maths song like a burst of sparkling rain,**

**< It is good, it is light, it is good.>**

The lurch back into awareness of the cold radiology room nearly causes Dev to jerk his whole body on the table and wreck the entire portion of the test.

As it is, he gives the next three minutes up as a loss because he is crying.

It is strange to weep prone on a table without the comfort of curling or lifting his hands to his eyes.

**Are you alright, Kiran Devabhaktuni? I sense you are distressed. I am sorry. This is a very pleasant memory to me. Perhaps I have misunderstood how it would appear to you as a human.**

_Bloody hell, bloody hell,_ is all he can think for a moment. _J’onn, that was…_

Lovely, is what he wants to say. Gorgeous. Thank you, thank you, a million times, but he can’t.

**I feel your gratitude and I thank you for sharing it with me. Many want to know what happened to my people but few ask about my people before the end of things.**

_I’ve so many questions. Can you mark the time?_

Dev is composed again; he feels himself filled with the memory of being comforted and it takes a moment to register that this, too, is something J’onn is giving him.

**It is marked. What questions?**

The hard plastic beneath his fingers reminds him he is alive in a real world, a place of concrete objects and sodding quantifiable experiences. And the aftermath of his emotions gives way to his sheer curiosity and he knows the first thing he wants to ask.

_Bollocks, J’onn, but are you…you’re…you’re a dragon!_

Somehow, it ended up not being a question.

He hears J’onn laugh, a sound like a cracking ice and he only knows that it’s laughter because of the sensation he feels of mirth along with it.

**I admit there is some similarity between my preferred childhood form and the depictions of the beast that goes by this name. I confess that it startled me the first time I saw such an illustration.**

_I don’t think you understand quite how bloody thrilling this is to me._

**I do because I share it.**

_FUCK._

Dev’s reaction isn’t angry; it’s such a striking moment of realization that it’s almost like triumphant shout and then he’s immediately worried he’s offended the alien.

_I’m so-_

**No apology is necessary, my friend. May I ask you a question?**

_Of course, bloody anything. I’m an open book to you. I owe you that sodding much._

**My memory caused you pain but I do not know why. As I said, it is a very pleasant memory to me. Perhaps it did not translate well.**

_It was bloody gorgeous. I don’t know if…uh, hm. Sod it all. I grew up in a home nearly the opposite of yours, I think, and I’ll probably never forget that glimpse of your childhood for the rest of my life._

**I wish to thank you for the way you honor the House of J’onzz with your respect.**

_Please, don’t thank me. I’m an arse. This was an experiment for me and you’ve been so brilliant about it, I’m afraid I’ve used you._

**The pursuit of understanding is nothing to be ashamed of, Kiran Devabhaktuni. Understanding is essential to peace and it is a great joy to gain knowledge.**

_I could ask you questions for hours, not the least of which is about maths, but the machine is shutting down._

**It has been a very satisfying ninety minutes.**

_Bloody hell, but I wish I could keep talking. But I’ve left poor Timothy Wayne hanging about for the whole time._

**Perhaps we can talk again soon. Please feel free to reach out at any time.**

And it’s not like the hanging up of a mobile, but a sudden hollowness in part of his brain he didn’t even know could feel hollow. The table is sliding forward while the scanner ring is sliding back and Dev sits up and blinks and is surprised at the normality of the radiology room.

He looks to the window to see Timothy and all the blood drains from his face. It’s not just Timothy in the room with the computers.

Tony Fabriello is there, watching with his arms crossed.

Dev sighs and climbs off the table, puts his trainers back on. He’s so cold his fingers are numb and fumble with the laces.

“Hullo, Tony,” he says when he joins them in the blessedly warmer room. He pulls his sweater back over his head and goes to the computer like nothing is wrong or unusual.

“Your intern was telling me you’ve been testing a new contrast dye,” Tony says in reply, stepping forward to look over the scans.

They’re unlike anything Dev has ever seen before. He wouldn’t even believe it was his own brain if it wasn’t for the familiar scar at the ridge of his brow.

The frontal and parietal lobes are lit up for entire blocks of time and Dev stares at them, thinking hard.

“Clearly, it’s a bloody disaster,” Dev says to Tony, remembering that he’s there. “Doesn’t work at all.”

“I didn’t know if I should stop the test or not,” Timothy says in a slightly nasal voice.

“I don’t know if it was contrast dye,” Tony says, looking over the images alongside him. “Are you sure the machine isn’t broken? What’s this?”

He points to one area, lit blue and green.

“Were you eating in there? What the hell.”

“So, the dye doesn’t work at all,” Dev sighs, nodding to Timothy. “Back to square one.”

“And run a diagnostic on the MRI while you’re at it,” Tony says.

“How are your grandkids?” Dev asks, wanting to change the subject before Timothy gets a whole slew of tasks in his fake role. He’s also thinking about J’onn’s family and remembering that Tony does have grandkids, their pictures all over his office. He also thinks of Rani and wants to ring her.

The older man puts a hand to his heart and a hand on Dev’s arm, and staggers back a little, exaggerated shock on his face. He stands and immediately looks completely calm, as if the moment never happened.

“They’re fine,” he says. “You know, in six years of working together you’ve never once asked me that?”

“Have I not?” Dev asks, feeling like an arse. It’s true; he can’t recall ever asking. And it’s not Tony’s fault that until the past year, he just didn’t really ever think of family anymore, or of other people having one.

“Nope,” Tony shakes his head. “But thanks. Anyway, I’m off to home. Sorry about your dye.”

As soon as the door closes, Timothy says, “I’m sorry, it was the best thing I could think of. He was in here for half an hour. How’d it go?

“Nah, mate, that was great,” Dev says, absorbed in the scans. “I think it went rather bloody well. And this is brilliant.”

“What’d you guys talk about? It was a long scan.”

“Loads. He’s my new best mate, now, you know.”

“Shut up,” Timothy grumbles.

“I don’t even know you,” Dev says, glancing over at the boy and his sour expression. “You’ve changed. You’ve a mustache now. What happened to you?”

“Dev,” the boy whinges. “Listen, I need coffee and I have to pee and your boss thinks I’m from Portland and have an acoustic garage band and a tattoo of a whale. I just kept talking to keep him busy and I’m worn out.”

“Go to the loo!” Dev waves an arm. He saves all the files in triplicate and pockets the flash drive. “I’ll meet you in my office and I’m at your disposal.”

“Sunrise pancakes and Borderlands 2?” Timothy asks from by the door.

Dev would agree to anything right now, with the pocketed scans and the memory of J’onn’s youth on a loop in his mind. But this is something that’d be easy to agree to even if he wasn’t in such a good mood.

“Bloody hell, yes,” he says. “And I pay for the pancakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this now clocks in at the longest chapter. I am sorry for the wait!
> 
> also, for reference, though I know it's pulling out of canon-order: http://static.srcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/Martian-Manhunter-Shapeshifter-Dragon.jpg


	40. stephanie stephanie stephanie. 16 may. gotham university campus.

The long hall is lined with old wooden tables with folding metal legs, most of them draped with bleached tablecloths and edged with Gotham University logos and colors.

Dev wanders the constructed aisles with his hands in his pockets, slowing to read the occasional tri-fold board or examine a model. Things are winding down and some students are already collapsing their displays, dragging crates or cardboard boxes out from under the tables to throw their stuff in. There are rolls of tape and loose pens lying about, the remnants of last minute adjustments to projects.

He stops in front of one board for the second time and peers closely at it, reading.

“Dev, I’m–”

“Shh,” he says.

“But it’s–”

“Shh.”

“We don’t have to–”

“Bloody hell, Stephanie,” he exclaims in mock irritation. He points to the paper backed by neon green card stock. “I’m reading this. It’s fascinating research.”

“Don’t make fun of me!” she exclaims. “I worked hard on this! Just because you had, what, twenty four years of school doesn’t–”

“Twenty four years, sod it all,” Dev steps back from the board and blinks. “Was it that many?”

Stephanie is folding the board closed and dragging her own banker’s box from beneath the table. It has two binders and some loose paper and a whole mess of post-it notes and a bottle of glue.

“I didn’t mean to tease you,” he says. “Well, alright, maybe I did, but I was being an arse. It’s good work.”

“For…” Stephanie prompts.

“For what?” he asks.

“For what?” she repeats. “Usually, it’s ‘it’s good work…for you.’”

“Nah, it’s just good work, love,” he says, picking up the board. “You ready?”

“Hold on,” Steph says, distracted. She drops the box on the table. “I see Professor Torres. I thought she’d left already.”

Steph waves and takes a few steps forward and stops. The professor in question is a woman almost as tall as Richard Grayson, with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a long black skirt. She walks toward them after Steph gets her attention.

“Professor Torres!” Steph says. “Hi, I really don’t want to bother you, and I know it won’t be official or anything but I was just wondering if maybe you could give me like, maybe just an idea about whether or not this will salvage my midterm grade?”

The professor looks at Steph and then up at Dev and back to Steph.

“Oh my god,” Steph says, “I’m being so rude. Professor Torres, my Uncle Dev, Dev, my psychology professor.”

“This is your uncle?” the woman asks with an eyebrow raised.

Steph pats Dev’s arm and leans closer to the professor to say in a loud whisper, “He’s adopted, but shh, don’t tell him. He doesn’t know yet.”

The professor laughs.

“Yes, Ms. Brown, I’d say you salvaged your midterm grade.”

“Thank you,” Steph exhales.

“Don’t thank me,” the professor says. “You did the work.”

“Oh, by the way, Uncle Dev is single and ace,” Steph says off-handedly, turning to pick up the box before she hurries away from both of them.

Dev stares after her and feels his whole face flush scarlet before he turns back to the professor, who is at least also staring after Steph with a hanging mouth.

“I…” he says.

“Well, I wish I was the sort of person to take this out on her grade,” Professor Torres says in a tight voice. Dev glances at her and sees she must feel at least as embarrassed as he does.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what the bloody hell she was thinking.”

“Might as well make the best of it,” the professor sighs. “Can I get you lunch?”

Dev thinks of himself two years ago, how much he would have loved lunch with someone who had similar dating expectations, but he feels the press of his packed schedule and full life right now and he tries not to sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I really can’t. I’m horribly busy, I’ve only just barely fit this in my schedule.”

It’s sort of a lie; he has the rest of the day off from the hospital. It’s also the truth because it’s the afternoon he’s set aside for checking on Steph and then Damian, to have tea with Alfie, dinner with Dick to see how a sprain is coming along, and then inventory stock in the Cave.

Plus Tim mentioned stopping by with his friend Kon to hang out and then a late night training session with Wayne.

“Hm, too bad. What do you do?” Professor Torres regards him carefully, looking disappointed by not crushed by any means.

“I’m a neurosurgeon,” he says with a shrug. “And I do extraterrestrial brain adaptation research.”

“Interesting,” she says a little appreciatively. “I just co-authored a paper on Gotham metas.”

“I’ll look for it,” he says. “I’m rather sorry about Steph, she can be…”

He trails off and thinks.

“Sweet,” he decides. “I think she’s trying to take care of me. It was lovely to meet you.”

“I’m in the university directory. Call if you change your mind,” she offers, turning away. He picks up the folded project board and leaves the room, heading for the car park where he left his car with a visitor’s permit.

And even though he knows Steph meant well, his anger and annoyance grow with every step.

She’s waiting by his hatchback with the box.

“Thank you for the ride,” she says when he unlocks the car. “Did you get her number? Did she tell you about the paper she just wrote?”

He puts the trifold board in the boot and slams it shut.

“Dev,” Steph says, lifting her head from the backseat where she was bent over the box.

“Where am I taking you?” he asks when she gets in the passenger seat.

“Are you mad at me?” Steph asks quietly.

“What the bloody hell, Steph?” he asks in reply, turning to face her. Her expression is wounded and he’s immediately chagrined.

“I’m sorry, I just…I didn’t, I thought you’d get along and I didn’t have a lot of time. I know it was awkward.”

“It’s alright,” he sighs. “Forget it.”

“She was nice, though, right?” Steph says hopefully.

“She seemed nice,” he agrees. “She asked me out to lunch. If it makes you feel any better.”

“Whaaaaaat!” Steph grins and dances in the passenger seat.

“I told her no.”

She freezes.

“Wait, what? Why? It took _careful planning_ and scheming to get you in the same room. Okay, that’s not true. I thought it would sound cool but it just makes me sound like a creeper. I wanted you to come see my project and it worked out. But _why_?”

“When do I have time for a date, Steph?” he asks, turning the key in the ignition. “And what the bloody hell am I supposed to do if I actually fancy someone and it gets serious? Aside from my job, how do I explain all my late nights and emergency calls?”

Steph is quiet and when she answers, her voice is small.

“Clark is married,” she says. “Bruce sees Selina. Dick and Babs are maybe back together, kind of.”

“Good for them,” he says. “But it’s not my secret to risk.”

“Of course it is, it’s–”

“No, it isn’t. There’s a rather fine difference between having a secret and being entrusted with one. I’m always walking the line between being part of what you do and being employed by the lot of you. And it’s not _mine_ to share or risk, whatever spot that puts me in.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Steph says. “You could date casually. You don’t have to be lonely.”

“Steph,” he looks at her. The car is still idling in the car park. “Look at me. Do you honestly think I know how to manage casual involvement? I’m hopeless on that count.”

But she won’t look at him; she’s scowling at the glove compartment.

“Steph,” he says gently. “I’m not bitter, even if I sound it. I’m not lonely. I’ve hardly a waking minute to myself these days and it’s been brilliant. I don’t even know how to handle it. Alfie had to all but confiscate my mobile and lock me in a room last week to give me an hour to myself.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I _swear_ on Alfie’s tea I’m not mad at you. I’m not even resigned to my fate; I’ve chosen it and I’m set in my ways as it is. Now, you wanted a ride. Where are we off to?”

“ClusterInk,” she says. “I have an appointment for a tattoo this afternoon and the bus stop there is skeevy. My friend Jordana will pick me up, though. You don’t have to stay. Oooor you could stay and get a tattoo.”

“No,” he says, firmly. “I don’t like needles.”

The incredulous lift of her eyebrows makes him laugh.

“What?” he says. “Just because I’m a doctor doesn’t mean I’ve got to enjoy them. I tolerate them when necessary but a tattoo isn’t necessary.”

“It depends on the tattoo,” she says.

“And it would be impulsive, which only works if one is drunk.”

“You could get a brain,” she says. “It’s not like you’ll get tired of them.”

“That’s actually-- no. Don’t try to talk me into it. I wasn’t even considering a tattoo five minutes ago. Don’t start giving me ideas.”

“Is it possible to be impulsive in advance? Because I made the appointment while freaking out about finals and I don’t even know what I’m getting.”

“Then cancel it,” Dev says sternly. “It isn’t worth it.”

“I’m not just stressed about finals,” Steph says softly. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve kinda been avoiding the manor.”

And this is one of the reasons he’d spent the first part of his day walking around a room of sophomore and junior undergrad psych projects.

“I’d noticed,” he says.

Steph takes a deep breath and leans her head against the dash. She takes bobby pins out of her hair and runs her fingers through the long, loose pieces that fall on her shoulders, then she sits up and starts repinning it. She holds the bobby pins between her lips on one side of her mouth and talks around them, looking at herself in the mirror of the sun visor she’s pulled down.

“I feel like I’m stuck,” she says. “I’m between Leslie and Bruce and there’s nothing I can do. It makes me feel like it’s my fault because I’m right in the middle and I’m sorry I’m dumping on you but I don’t know who else to talk to. Everyone else wants to pick sides, or won’t pick at all, except Cass said you got Babs and Bruce to talk again.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t go that bloody far,” he warns. “That was more Cass than me. I’d no idea what was going on for half of that.”

“But Cass is like, all emotional-conflict-zoned out. She’s just done and I can’t push it. And everyone else wants to hate someone. Like, Dev, you were here when everything went to shit. They just barely kept my name out of the news, but the rest of it, the gang war, you have to remember that, right?”

“Remember it?” he asks. “Cor. I did so many emergency surgeries I was seeing bone drills in my sleep.”

“So. Well. It was…it was kinda my fault?”

The bobby pins are back in her hair and she’s got her hands clasped together, fiddling with a ring she has on her right hand.

“What?”

Dev turns off the car. It’s mild outside and it’s looking like they aren’t going anywhere soon.

“Well, not entirely, but like, um. I…started the gang war? It was like a huge misunderstanding but it was still me and my only excuse is that Bruce was being a total ass, even more than usual, like…epic levels of bastard. I don’t think you understand how much he’s changed even more since the tumor. And anyway, I just wanted to fix everything and it kind of all went to shit.

“And then, well, you know what you were saying about secrets? So, yeah, you’ve seen my medical files and you know that time I almost died. Like, it was bad. I was, um, tortured? Like sitting here outside the Life Sciences building it sounds dramatic but I don’t know what else to call it. I kind of don’t even remember all of it. Well, anyway, so somehow I ended up at Dr. Thompkins and she, well…she faked my death? Like she said I was dead. She told everyone I was dead.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” Dev exhales when Steph pauses. “For how long?”

“Months. Like, I think she was punishing Bruce? And maybe she thought she was saving me, I don’t know. I mean, I do, because she told me that’s why. But I don’t know. She was still really mad about Jason. And she just let everyone believe it-- my mom, Cass, Tim. I ended up coming back from Africa by myself. And I know she said he kept putting us in danger but I mean, he’d fired me. It was sort of a shitty way to do it, but he’d all but said ‘Stay off the streets, Stephanie,’” she drops her voice in poor imitation, “and I didn’t listen. So I feel like it’s my fault and I’m still in the middle and they’ve both apologized to me and I’m _trying_ but I still can’t make them talk to each other and move on.

“It’s just killing me and I can’t stop thinking about it because they both, like, _really_ apologized to me and Bruce has been changing and trying and Leslie has been so upset like it really hit her later what she actually did and I can’t stay mad at her and Bruce has been being nicer to like everyone else, except it’s this one thing between them and they’re still so pissed about it. I know it’s because they’re both so hurt but I’m worried it’s just going to ruin everything and we’ll all go back to how it was when it was really bad.

“And oh my god I’m talking and talking and you’re just sitting here stuck in your car with me. I’m so sorry, I can just get a ride…I mean, I can just go back to my dorm and–”

“Steph,” Dev says. “It’s okay. And you’re right. It’s not your fault.”

She sniffs and rubs her forehead.

“Will you _please_ talk to Bruce? He _might_ listen to you.”

Dev balks internally at the thought of that conversation, but he looks at her and then out across the trimmed green lawn around the car park. He sighs and mulls over everything she just said, and finds his reaction is alarm and anger instead of fear.

“Alright. I will,” he says. “Give me a few bloody days to think about how. And in the meantime, stop avoiding the manor. You’ve been missed.”

“I know, I know,” she says. “Damian keeps texting me. Some of that’s been finals, though. Like I’ve barely even been out on patrol I’ve been so busy studying. One more and I’m done.”

“What time is your appointment?” Dev asks, turning the key enough to start up the battery. Steph looks at the time on the dash and says,

“Like twenty minutes?”

“We can make it,” he says, turning the car back on.

“I thought you said I should–”

“We can make it,” he repeats. “And one of us will find something.”

She’s quiet for a few minutes while he drives and then says, “Thanks for letting me vent. I feel a lot better just talking about it.”

“No worries,” he says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel at a stoplight.

“Um,” she says, and he looks over to see that she’s chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“Out with it.”

“How are you? Like, how are you doing? I mean, it’s only been what, like seven weeks?”

Steph sounds nervous.

“Eight yesterday,” he says, because he knows without thinking about it. “And I’m not great but I’m alright. And I’ve been talking to Alfie when I need to.”

“Oh, okay. Good. I mean, I’m glad. I mean I’m not glad that you’re not great but I’m glad that, well, that you’re–”

“Steph,” Dev says and she stops talking. “Thanks for asking. It’s fine.”

At the next turn, he inhales and asks in a louder, enthusiastic tone, “So then! What tattoo? And how many do you’ve already?”

“Just three,” Steph says, her voice picking up energy. “I told myself at first it was like an identification thing, so Cass could know like _really_ know if a body was mine or not, but really I think I just like them.”

“We’re going to ignore how sodding macabre that is,” Dev says, “and move on. Do you’ve any ideas at all? And how sanitary is this place? You know I’m going to come in and ask a dozen questions and likely horribly embarrass you.”

Steph laughs and says, “No need, _Uncle_ Dev. I asked them myself. My mom’s a nurse, you know. Germophobia is in my blood. I was thinking about an ampersand. Like, there’s more, right? Life just keeps going no matter how many times you get screwed over or do something right, there’s more. Every day.”

“Hm,” he says, his brow creasing. “What others do you have?”

“The letter C in a bottle for Cass, a birthday candle for my 18th birthday, and a rabbit. They’re all super tiny.”

“What’s the rabbit for?”

“Nothing. I just like rabbits. Not everyone in this family is obsessed with things that fly. Rabbits stay close to the ground, they burrow into dens–”

“Warrens,” Dev says.

“What?”

“Warrens. Rabbit homes. They’re called warrens.”

“Oh,” Steph says thoughtfully. “Anyway, I guess it does kind of mean something. Rabbits survive. They look soft and cuddly and everyone thinks they’re cute, but they have to hide to get by. And they still keep coming back to the top for food and air and it’s survival, but it’s also brave, right? Because it’d be tempting to just stay hidden all the time but they can’t and they don’t. Maybe they don’t have a choice because of biology and this is all stupid but like, there are still rabbits in the world.”

“They’re mad fighters, too,” Dev says, glancing over. “My mate in primary school kept rabbits. His mum made him give them up when one of them kicked him and gashed his arm enough to need sutures.”

“Huh,” Steph says, a small and pleased smile on her face. “Huh.”

“So an ampersand,” he says, parking the car outside the little shop. He’s driven past it on the way to Timothy’s enough times that he didn’t need to look up directions.

“I’m not sold on it,” Steph says slowly, unbuckling. “And you said _one_ of us would use the appointment slot.”

“I did,” he says. “And I bloody well already regret it.”

“Do you have any already?” she asks over the hood of the car when he stands.

“First, I want to remind you that the 1990s in London were a mental time,” he says, “and also that I spent a good deal of my university time not entirely sober.”

“Ooh,” Steph says, “now you _have_ to tell me.”

They go into the shop and he’s pleased to see that it does look clean and well-lit, despite the grungy exterior. A man greets them and says he’ll be there in a minute, and Steph stands at the counter to flip through a portfolio.

“I have one,” Dev says. “The name Amy. On my hip.”

“Who’s Amy?” Steph asks, looking sidelong at him. He can tell she’s trying to decide if it’s dangerous territory or not.

“Haven’t a clue,” he says. “Woke up with it. Never did find out.”

Steph starts laughing. She laughs so hard she has to stop flipping pages of the portfolio and sit down on the vintage car bench seat by the window.

“I’m glad it amuses you,” he says, stiffly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “And you’ll go to your grave with it.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. We have to like, make up a story for her now.”

“What?” he exclaims. “No, no, we absolutely do not.”

“Yes,” she insists, snorting. “Oh my god, does Tim know? He’s going to. So, like, forbidden love, right? She hated you at first but it was,” she stops talking so she can snort and collect herself. “Oh my god. Okay. She hated you but you fell in love. You were going to run away to, um, Tibet. No! Brazil. But you also loved medicine and she was all like, ‘I could never marry a doctor’ and she didn’t hate you anymore but you loved brains more. And then you find out she’s just, what’s the British CIA? MI-6, right? So she’s MI-6 and she’s been using you as part of your cover story. But she’s like, really in love now but you’ve realized you don’t love her, she’s not who you thought and–”

“Are you quite done?” he asks, flipping through the portfolio to be doing something with his hands. He’s trying hard to sound angry but it’s more difficult than he wants to admit.

“No! I’m just getting started,” she says. “So, you tell her you can’t be with her, and she’s so sad. Just weepy. And you’re like, ‘I’ll tattoo your name on my person and remember you forever but we can never be together’ and she’s like, ‘Dev’-- wait, does she call you Dev? Or Kiran?”

“I don’t know,” he says irritably. “It’s your bloody story. Sidney, I guess.”

This whole thing reminds him a bit of Leena.

“Sidney and Amy! Okay, so you go to get the tattoo and she’s supposed meet you, you’re going to like have a farewell date. She never shows. You get the tattoo. A week later you find out she was killed, like, Russian spies found her. Or wait, maybe _she_ was Russian all along, a double agent. You’ve been dating a traitor. You can never let anyone know you have a tattoo of her name. You visit her grave once, just to say goodbye. You cry. Maybe you loved her after all.”

Steph rejoins him at the counter and grins.

“You have made my day one thousand times better.”

“You did it yourself,” he grumbles. “I think I will get a tattoo, just to cover it up. I should’ve years ago.”

“You can’t!” Steph exclaims. “Your one true love!”

“I thought I’d decided I didn’t like her.”

“Yeah, but then you _lost_ her and you realized you’d been an idiot,” Steph says, pointing to a tattoo in the book. “How about this one?”

“I’m not getting a tattoo,” he says, not looking down at it. “I’m forty one. I’m well past the expiration date for impulsive decisions.”

“I resemble that remark,” a man says, coming out from behind a curtain. He has full tattoo sleeves and shock white hair and a deeply wrinkled face, and must be at least as old as Alfie if not older.

“C’mon,” Steph says, nudging him. “I’m having second thoughts about the ampersand but I think it’s time to let Amy go.”

“A bad break-up?” the older man asks, leaning on the counter. “Make sure it’s over before we try to fix something. You’d be surprised how many names I recycle only to have people in here two weeks later to get the same name again.”

“Oh, it’s over,” Steph says seriously. “She betrayed the Crown. A Russian. It was a long time ago.”

“Well, that sounds like a story worth keeping,” he says.

Dev sighs and looks down at the picture Steph still has a finger on.

It’s a robin with detailed feathers.

She smirks at him when she realizes he’s finally looked.

“What the bloody hell,” he sighs, “it can’t be worse than Amy.”

“Wait, really?” she asks with wide eyes. “I was, I mean, I was just teasing.”

“Oh, I like that one,” the man comments. “It’s good for covering things, too. Lots of solid color. Where are we working?”

“Dev,” she says, “you don’t really have to–”

“My hip,” Dev says, feeling more and more firmly decided as the seconds pass. He looks down at Steph. “Not a word.”

Her eyes are shining.

“Never. Highly classified. More than a Russian spy girlfriend, even. You know this is like literally the most ridiculous thing ever.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “I think your lot is driving me mental.”

“Oh, probably,” she says. “We’re good at that. Oh my god this is the best thing. I can’t believe I’ve already promised not to tell anyone.”

The man behind the counter spins the portfolio around to study the bird.

“Same colors?” he asks, looking it over. “Anything you want to change? I might have to alter it a little depending on the state of the first tattoo.”

“I’ll trust your expertise,” Dev says, glancing again at the man’s detailed sleeves. “And I might sodding pass out. I’ve a thing about needles and I’m far too sober for this.”

“I’ll hold your hand,” Steph says with a grin. “It’ll keep me from taking pictures and breaking my promise. Have I ever told you that you are my favorite uncle?”

“He’s your uncle?” the old man asks.

Dev looks him right in the eye and says with a serious expression, “She’s adopted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys YOU GUYS. We're down to like, four or five chapters left, and I promise this whole thing actually has a resolving narrative arc. thanks for hanging in there with me. :)
> 
> also, i've obviously mildly ret-conned SOME of the war games stuff.


	41. zombie boy 08/16 #04. 24-25 may. kent farm.

There is an inchworm steadily creeping along Hayley Mullen’s finger when Dev’s mobile rings. He steps away from her and Uriah to answer the call when he sees that the screen says Jason Wayne.

“I’m gonna squish ‘im,” he hears his niece say and he watches Uriah hold her hand still while he saves the tiny green bug, just as Dev holds the mobile up to his face and presses a finger against the ear on the opposite side.

“Hullo, Zombie Boy,” he says, taking a few steps more away from the Mullens. Brady Mullen tears by him on a bike, whooping, and Dev takes another step into the grass and away from the road they’ve been walking along.

“Dev,” the boy answers and Dev is immediately alarmed by the haggard tone.

“What’s wrong?” Dev asks, taking a few more steps away. He glances over his shoulder. Uriah is holding the inchworm aloft on his own finger while Hayley pouts and whinges, “I was just joking!”

“Um,” Jason sighs audibly over the phone. “So, uh…I think I fucked up my arm. Martha said she was going to make me go to the hospital if I didn’t call you. So, I’m fricking calling.”

“Hold on,” Dev says. He pulls the mobile down from his face and waves to get Uriah’s attention.

“So sorry,” he says, “It’s a bit of a work emergency. I’m heading back to the house.”

“I’m coming with you!” Hayley calls, only to be snagged around the waist by Uriah and swung up onto his shoulder.

“No, you don’t,” he tells her. “He’s on the phone.”

“Did you just squish Mudge?” she shrieks at her father, looking down in horror at the smear of green on his thumb. “He was my best pet!”

“Shoot,” Uriah mutters, “I’m sorry, Hay, he was so…”

“Green and tiny!” she laments loudly.

Dev walks away and lifts the mobile back up.

“I’m here,” he says. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Jason growls on the other end and it sounds like he’s let his head drop against something, maybe a wall.

“Uh, so, I was helping Jonathan dig new holes for fence posts and I, um, I…fuck. I slammed the post-hole digger down and it hit a rock or something and my arm got twisted, the one that was already still fricking sore sometimes, and I felt a, uh…like…”

“A pop?” Dev suggests, feeling a surge of frustration and suspicion.

“Yeah, like a pop,” Jason sighs, making a popping noise with his lips. “Dagnabbit. That’s like, pretty bad, right?”

“Dagnabbit?” Dev laughs, “That one’s new, mate. And it’s not great. How’s it been since?”

“I’ve been with the Kents all winter! Jonathan’s given me new material. And it’s been sore.”

“Sore? On a scale of ‘Wayne holiday gala’ to ‘oh god oh god I’m on fire,’ where would you put your pain?”

Now Jason is laughing, even though it’s a little rough and low.

“I don’t get to just pick between frigging one and ten?” he asks.

“No, because your scale has a number called ‘frigging one,’” Dev answers. “Come on, then. Rate your misery.”

“Ugh, gorram. Okay. I’m at ‘shit, shit, the plane’s going down over the ocean, tell my wife I loved her.’”

Dev stops walking.

“That bad?”

Jason sounds sobered and glum when he says, simply, “Yeah.”

“How long ago?”

“Um,” Jason says, drawing out the syllable. “Three days ago?”

“Shite, Jason! Why didn’t you ring me right away?” Dev starts walking again, his pace picked up a good bit. “I’ve got to find a flight, but I’ll be there tonight. Put ice on it and don’t move it much.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy says angrily. “I didn’t want it to be a fucking problem.”

“And ignoring it fixed it right up for you, did it?” Dev snaps.

“Never mind,” Jason growls. “I’ll just let Martha take me to the hospital and I’ll make up shit about my scars.”

“No,” Dev says wearily before Jason hangs up. “I’m sorry. I’m not miffed at you. Just…miffed. I’ll be there tonight. Really, if it’s a torn ligament there’s not much I can do right off anyway except give you some meds. Do you have any painkillers left?”

“A couple,” Jason says irritably. “Should I take them?”

“If the plane is going down, then yes. You take the pills, I’ll give my regards to your wife. Can you move your lower arm? Your hand?”

Dev has made it back to the house and he leans on the bonnet of his rental car in the driveway. Rani comes out on the front porch and waves to him with a spatula and then goes back inside when she sees the mobile in his hand.

“I can move them. Some.” Jason says. “It hurts like the dickens but I can move them.”

“Good,” Dev says. “Now stop trying. Ice and meds. I’ll text you when I’ve found a flight.”

“Hey, Dr. Frankenstein,” Jason says, just as Dev is about to end the call. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dev says. “It’s what I’m here for.”

Within an hour, he’s booked a flight and given his apologies and farewells to the Mullens and is on the road to the Minneapolis airport. There’s a brief delay at the security check when they insist on closely examining the scaled down version of his medkit he’s started traveling with, but eventually let him through, and he makes it to the boarding gate with minutes to spare.

From there, it’s a straight flight to Wichita and then sixty-three kilometers to the Kent farm in his second rental car of the day. The late spring light is stretching out far into the evening now, so even though it’s 5 P.M. and in that hazy turnover from afternoon to evening, the light is still bright and clear across the fields when he turns off the main road and down the gravel drive.

The house is quiet when Dev climbs out of the car and stretches, the hours of travel catching up to him. He yawns and grabs the medkit from the back, deciding to leave his duffel for later. On the porch, he’s just raised his hand to knock when the door swings open.

“I thought I heard a car,” Martha Kent says. “Come on in, we’re just finishing supper. Are you hungry?”

She asks over her shoulder while he follows her into the house.

“I am,” he says. “But if you’re finishing, I’d rather wait until after I look at Jason’s arm.”

“I’ll keep a plate warm for you,” she says as they step into the dining room.

Jason is standing, an empty plate in one hand and his other arm held cradled against his body. He’s still chewing when he nods to Dev.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hullo, yourself,” Dev says. Jonathan Kent is standing and offering his hand, and Dev shakes it and then waves him back into his chair. “Don’t let me rush you.”

Jason leads him into the living room next and sits on the edge of the couch with a grimace. Dev sits next to him and drops the medkit on the floor; he unzips the top and pulls out a small hand-held device about the size of an ice cream scoop.

“I ought to warn you,” Dev says, “I’m bloody excited to use this, but I’m sorry it’s for your arm.”

“What is it?” Jason asks, leaning forward to look at it while Dev turns it on. A small screen glows to life and there’s a WE Prototype boot-up screen before it switches to the main display.

“It’s a sort of thermographer,” Dev says, glancing at Jason’s face to see if he can gauge the level of pain. “It’s going to save us a trip to the hospital for scans. I’ve been carrying it with me for three sodding weeks now, hoping I’d get to use it and hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

“So, I’m doing you a gorram favor, really,” Jason says with a slight grin.

“Bloody hell, yes,” Dev says. “When’d you take meds last?”

“Right after I talked to you on the phone. They’ve helped.”

“Good. I’m going to hold your arm up, but I don’t want you to extend it or do anything with your hand, then. Right?”

“Fuck,” Jason replies under his breath when Dev lifts his arm. He’s wearing short sleeves and the whole area below his inner elbow is reddened.

Dev frowns and tracks the thermographer across the joint and up the boy’s arm just a little, absorbed in the study of the multicolored image, enough to forget the device itself.

“Well, mate, you’ve torn your ligament pretty badly,” Dev says, going over the area once again just to double-check. “This was the side that was already pretty weak, yeah?”

“Yup,” Jason says, putting his other hand to his face. “Goddamnit. Sorry, Jonathan.”

Dev turns to see Jonathan Kent standing at the edge of the living room, his thumbs hooked in his jean pockets.

“Don’t mind me,” Jonathan says, nodding to the thermographer. “What’ve you got there, Sidney?”

“It’s a thermographer. It reads heat signatures of different organic matter; muscles, blood, bone.”

Jonathan walks over to them and bends over, hands on his knees, while he looks at the screen over Dev’s shoulder. Jason is leaning forward to look, too, now, distracted.

“It’s Wayne R&D tech,” Dev continues. “And I’m likely to never give it back, though I’m supposed to.”

“That,” Jonathan says, standing and crossing his arms, “is a tricorder. And don’t try to tell me any different. Has Clark seen it? He’d be just about out of his mind with excitement.”

“Are you a Trekkie, mate?” Dev asks, grinning up at the older man.

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Jonathan exclaims. “We devoured Star Trek in this house. Clark and I watched it every week. The aliens weren’t all bad guys! He used to put one of Martha’s hair things across his eyes and tear around pretending to be Geordi La Forge. Anyways, that’s a tricorder if I’ve ever seen one.”

“It is a bit,” Dev agrees, looking down at the device. “I’m not going to argue you out of that. Want to look it over?”

Jonathan takes it and examines it closely.

Dev turns back to Jason.

“That’s going to need surgery, Zombie Boy.”

Jason groans and lets his head fall back on the couch.

“When can you do it?” Jason asks, his eyes closed. “I just want to fricking get it over with.”

Dev sighs and doesn’t answer right away. He glances up at Jonathan, who notices after a moment and wordlessly hands the thermographer back to him and heads out of the room.

“I won’t do the surgery,” Dev says quietly.

“What the hell?” Jason snaps, sitting up again and wincing. “Why the fuck not?”

“It’s not my field, mate. I can handle emergencies, but you’ve got time. The pain is shite, but we can make it manageable for a few days or weeks. We’ll put your arm in a sling to keep it mostly immobile. You don’t want to risk losing range of motion because I’m fumbling along inside your arm. I’ll find someone good, someone brilliant. Far from Gotham or here, maybe south or out west. Your da can take you, or I can, if you’d rather.”

“Fuck you,” Jason spits out. “What the jiminy cricket do I say about scars if they ask? What if my heart’s screwed up from dying twice and they ask questions? _Fuck_ you. I should have just let Martha take me to the fricking hospital.”

Dev stands and takes a deep breath. He bites the inside of his lip so hard it might be bleeding, and when he speaks, it takes great effort to keep his voice calm as if Jason hadn’t said anything.

“I’ve been thinking about scars. I don’t know that it’d be worth risking in Gotham, with your real name, but if Wayne could make false papers for you, you ought to tell them you race motocross, as a hobby. I had a patient a few years ago with cranial injury from a bike accident and he was scarred all over, mostly from treating himself at home. It would even be a good excuse for the injury itself.”

“Don’t bother,” Jason snarls, throwing himself back on the couch. “I’m not having surgery. I’ll just let it heal and I’ll learn to live around it.”

Dev stammers for a moment, then stops and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I absolutely cannot recommend that,” he finally manages to say.

“Well, it’s not fucking up to you,” Jason growls. “Gorram, Dev, I called you because I thought–”

Dev is tired. No, Dev is properly and thoroughly exhausted. And he’d been in Minnesota for all of three hours after a morning flight there from Gotham, which he’d caught after an overnight shift.

“You thought _what_?” he snaps, interrupting the boy. “That I’d swing by and press a button to fix it?”

“No!” Jason protests angrily, “I–”

“I might be an arrogant bastard but I’m not a stupid one,” Dev says, glaring at the boy. He throws a hand in the air in exasperation. “I’m not going to sodding apologize for insisting you see someone with more experience! Bloody hell! And you aren’t going to sit there and be a little arse about it, either, just because I fucking won’t risk a shite job. Don’t you think it’d be _easier_ for me to just say I’d do it myself? I’m sodding telling you I don’t think I’m good enough, that you deserve better, and you’re throwing it in my bloody face. And the surgery is _not fucking optional_.”

Jason stands up and shoves past him.

Dev stays in the living room and puts a hand to his head, muttering “Shite,” under his breath because he already knows he’s totally botched the whole thing.

The front door slams and a moment later, there’s the sound of a car engine roaring to life outside the window. Dev strides through the farmhouse and out onto the front porch, shouting, “Jason!” from the top step as the car jerks out of reverse and down the lane.

“Let him go,” Martha Kent says gently. Dev twists around to see her sitting on the porch swing. “He’ll come back.”

“Bollocks, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to come fill your house with shouting. Does he run off often?”

“Not as much now, but a lot the first two months. But he’s a grown boy. Jonathan went after him once and it didn’t end well. I think he needs to bring himself back, to know that he will.”

“Aww, bloody hell,” Dev sighs again. He crosses his arms and watches the slight dust cloud rise from behind the retreating car. “Do you mind if I stay until he comes back? I can get a hotel room, if you don’t mind ringing me when he does.”

“Nonsense,” Martha says. “We’ve got room. An actual bed this time, even, and not just a sleeping bag.”

She smiles and he laughs.

“You know, I hardly slept that night,” he says, thinking of Thanksgiving and glad to have a distraction. “Timothy and Dick kept me talking until I stopped making sense.”

“That does sound like them,” she says fondly. “I hope you didn’t mind too much.”

“Aw, no,” Dev says, sitting on the top step. “They’re lovely boys. I’m already feeling rather wretched for shouting at Jason just now, to be honest.”

“He was being an ass,” Martha says simply, and without meanness. “Jon and I could both hear him. But you’re right; shouting at him didn’t help anything.”

Dev wants the Kent porch to swallow him whole, so he can just bury himself in the dark brown dirt against the foundation of the farmhouse.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Sidney. What’s done is done. You’ll apologize when he comes back and he’ll come back calmed down. He always does; he just needs to run a bit. Come on in and eat something.”

Wearily, Dev hauls himself to his feet and follows her in. He eats at the kitchen table while she does dishes and Jonathan joins him with a cup of coffee to talk.

He excuses himself from their company not long after eating to go sleep, and he sleeps until a faint pounding wakes him. His mobile reads three in the morning.

The pounding isn’t on his door but on the wall. He cracks the door open, still groggy with sleep, and looks over. There’s nothing there. He looks down. Jason is sitting on the ochre-color carpeted hallway floor, thudding the back of his head against the wall, over and over.

He looks up at Dev and in the faint light from above the stairs, Dev can see Jason has a busted lip and the beginning of a black eye.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes full of tears. “I’m sorry. I got into a bar fight.”

Dev crouches down next to him and lifts Jason’s chin to better study his eye.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. Let’s go down to the kitchen and I’ll ice that and patch your lip. Anything else?”

Jason shakes his head.

“I went down fast. Couldn’t keep a fricking defense up. I don’t know if I even wanted to. Not the kitchen. I don’t want to worry the Kents.”

“Alright,” Dev says. “Your room or the room they put me in.”

“Mine,” Jason says, letting Dev pull him to his feet by his good arm. He staggers once walking down the hall and Dev catches him.

“How tight are you?”

“What?” Jason asks, sounding bewildered. He regains his balance and walks the rest of the hallway without help.

“Drunk, Zombie Boy. How much’ve you had?”

“Just one beer. Fricative. I think it’s the pain meds.”

“Fricative?” Dev repeats. “And if you had any alcohol at all it’s likely the meds.”

“It has a satisfying sound,” Jason says, shuffling across the floor to the full size bed. He sits on the edge of the faded cornflower blue quilt and gingerly feels his lip. “Shit. The Kents are gonna find out.”

“Probably,” Dev says. “I’ll be back with my medkit.”

When he returns with the kit, Jason has a lollipop in his mouth and is rolling the stick back and forth across his teeth while he sucks on it. There’s a bowl on the desk in the corner with a handful of other lollipops and Jason nods to it.

“Help yourself.”

“‘Fricative’ _is_ satisfying to say,” Dev tells him, thumbing through the lollipops and taking a butterscotch one. He needs something to wake up him all the way, to chase the remnants of sleep from his head, and the corn syrup in the candy is like a jolt to his teeth and brain.

“Intro to Linguistics,” Jason tells him while he digs in the medkit for an instant ice pack. “Best thing I got out of that class. Anything with an ‘f’ and a hard consonant really. ‘Frigate’ works, too. Got that one from American Poetry.”

“How is uni treating you?” Dev asks around the lollipop, cracking the ice pack against his palm.

Jason winces when he puts the ice pack against his eye and then sighs and tips his chin up and bites the lollipop stick for a second. He lets it roll to the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I’m trying to quit smoking. And I like having an excuse to read all the time. But I hate most of the fricking professors and I’m pretty sure it’s mutual. Steph tells me it’s a first semester thing though, so I don’t know.”

“You finished for the summer?” Dev takes Jason’s chin in his fingers again and looks at his lip, the split skin on the opposite side from the lollipop stick. “I’m going to leave that alone, mate. I don’t think it needs anything. But you’re overdue for codeine if you want it.”

“Yeah, I finished last week. But summer classes start in June. My gorram arm is killing me,” Jason sighs. “I swear I only had one beer. It wasn’t even a good beer. My meds are in the bathroom.”

“I’ve some in here,” Dev replies, plucking the bottle out from the bottom of the kit. He twists the cap and tips some out into his hand. “Do you need water?”

“Nah,” Jason says, trading the ice pack for the meds. “I mean, probably, but not for the meds.”

Dev gives him the ice pack again and slips out into the hallway. He creeps down the stairs, making a face at the stair that creaks loudly through the farmhouse, and finds a glass in the kitchen. He tries to skip the step on the way back up, but in the dark, skips the wrong one and swears under his breath.

Back in the room, Jason drains half the glass of water without taking the lollipop out of his mouth. Dev yawns and sits on the floor and then taps his own lollipop against his teeth, enjoying the faint clicking sound that reverberates through his skull.

“I’ll have the surgery,” Jason says quietly, lying back on the bed after setting the water glass down. “I’m sorry I was being an asshole. I’m just freaking sick of not being better.”

“I know,” Dev says, equally quiet. “It’s alright.”

“I don’t want to go somewhere I’ll have to fly,” Jason says. “And being put to sleep makes me fucking nervous.”

“No worries,” Dev says. “I’ll find someone. Do you want me to take you, when it’s scheduled?”

Jason tosses the ice pack onto the desk and puts a hand over his eyes. He doesn’t answer for a long time, so long that Dev is starting to think the boy has fallen asleep.

“No,” Jason says finally, taking the lollipop stick from his mouth, “I’ll have Bruce take me.”

The end of the stick is a mangled, mushed pulp of paper but Dev holds his hand out for it anyway and flicks it into the rubbish bin beside the door with his own unfinished lollipop.

“I just want to be fricking useful again,” Jason sighs. “All I ever do anymore is need help.”

Dev thinks for a moment.

“Do you think you can sleep?” he asks. “You ought to sleep.”

“No,” Jason says, still stretched out on the bed. He swings his feet over the side and sits up again. “Maybe later. Why?”

“I’ll be right back,” Dev stands and goes back to the guest room he was put in for the night, Conner Kent’s room with its wooden bunkbeds and long wall of vintage records. He grabs a folder from his duffel that he’d packed to work on at Rani’s when there was deadspace, like bedtime for the kids or when he woke up at four in the morning because his sleep schedule was always off anymore.

In Jason’s room, he drops it on the desk.

“I will pay you,” he says, “if you will spare me the agony of editing that.”

Jason raises an eyebrow above his blackened eye and picks up the folder. He flips it open to the research paper Dev has spent the past two weeks on and starts skimming it.

“You don’t have to,” Jason says while reading, “I don’t need pity work. Hot damn, but this is a long run-on.”

“It’s not pity work,” Dev says. “It’s the bane of my existence.”

“Okay,” Jason says, distracted as he scoots back against the headboard. “Hand me that pen.”

“Don’t use your arm,” Dev says, handing him the pen. “Where’s the nearest store? I ought to get it into a sling.”

“Wal-Mart is like ten minutes away.”

“Alright,” Dev looks at his mobile for the time and yawns again. “I’ll just go now then. Need anything?”

“Another bag of those dum-dum suckers,” Jason says without looking up. “I’m almost out.”

“I ought to find you something with less sugar,” Dev says, giving the bowl a rueful look. He thinks of cavities reaching down into jaw bone, of rotting holes.

Jason laughs.

“Frick,” he says, “just be happy I’m not smoking as much. Let me have my fucking vices. And good _night_ , Dev, commas aren’t going to die off if you leave them alone for a while.”

“I told you it wasn’t a pity job,” Dev says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. Sling and dental decay. Ring me if you think of anything else.”

“Dev, this isn’t even a word,” Jason says, tapping with the pen.

“It might be,” Dev says defensively, stepping forward to look at the paper. “I’ll get you a sheet of medical jargon for reference.”

He looks down where the tip of the pen is resting.

“Yeah, that’s not a word,” he agrees. “Bloody hell. I don’t know what I was doing there.”

Dev is at the door when Jason says his name again. He almost doesn’t stop or turn.

“I know it’s awful writing,” he says, hedging, paused with his hand on the knob. “My first drafts are always shite.”

“It can be fixed, right?” Jason says instead, his voice small and tight. “My frigging arm?”

Dev looks back at him and smiles, and he doesn’t have to fake being reassuring or sincere.

“You’ll be fine, Zombie Boy.”

Jason holds his gaze for a moment and then drops his eyes back to the paper on his lap.

“Okay,” he says. “Do you think…never mind. It’s nothing.”

“I do think,” Dev says with a grin. “Out with it.”

“Do you think I could go back with you? Damian is coming next week but I kind of want to go home for a few days before classes start back up,” Jason is looking down at the quilt, dragging the capped end of the pen along a whorl of stitching. “But never mind. It’d be too much fucking trouble. I won’t fly.”

Dev pulls his mobile out and looks over the hospital schedule. His next shift is in two days, and he doesn’t have any consultations for a week.

“A sodding road trip it is,” Dev says, looking up at him. “Pack your shite while I’m out at the store.”

Jason smirks, relief in his eyes but belligerence in the swagger of his shoulder as he leans forward.

“A fucking adventure. Get snacks.”


	42. well, shite. 16 june. cave.

The summer is properly begun and Dev has been as busy as bloody hell, going from one thing to the next ever since he road tripped back to Gotham with Jason. 

He’s been working or performing surgeries or taking a last hike with Damian and Timothy before Damian goes to the Kents, making phone calls to find a surgeon for Jason, training with Wayne, recovering from training with Wayne, having tea with Alfie, paying a make-up visit to Rani, fitting in long and needed gaming sessions with Timothy, Skyping with Leena, going to Cass’ ballet recital with Wayne and Steph, and chatting occasionally with J’onn, all in the same three weeks.

Jason and Damian have been taken back to the Kent farm, Leena has agreed to come visit in the autumn, and things show no sign of slowing down at all.

It feels like life on fast forward, so he is grateful for quiet and small emergencies like a mild laceration on Wayne’s arm and an otherwise empty Cave and the chance to talk, even if he’s not particularly looking forward to the topic.

Dev sits on the stool with the tray of supplies at his elbow. He is tearing open an alcohol wipe to sanitize with when Wayne grabs the box off the tray.

“Dev,” he says, “what is this?”

He sounds a little wary.

“That,” Dev says, filling a syringe, “is– oi, watch your arm, mate, you’re dripping blood– a box of pink suture nylon.”

“Dev,” Wayne says again.

“Wayne,” Dev says, looking at the man’s face.

They hold each other’s stares for a moment and then Wayne sighs.

“Hn,” he says. 

Dev laces the suture.

“I think you ought to talk to Dr. Thompkins,” Dev says when he ties the first pink stitch. He’s been putting it off for too long and needs to just get it over with, because he said he would, and it’s been so busy he doesn’t know when he’ll get another chance.

Because Dev is suturing, he can feel and see the way Wayne tenses. Dev tugs a stitch through and says gently,

“Eh, relax. Don’t make this harder to stitch.”

Wayne doesn’t relax but Dev doesn’t insist on it again. 

“You’re humiliating me with pink sutures. Aside from the fact that it’s none of your business, this is hardly the time.”

“I’m not humiliating you, mate,” Dev says, letting a bit of cheer into his voice but keeping it level and calm. He knows that he’s on thin ice here but he also feels like he owes Wayne and the rest of the family the risk, and it’s not the sutures that are dangerous territory. 

“They’re pink, Dev. Bright pink. I’m not blind.”

“I did warn you,” Dev says with a slight smile. He’s trying hard to catch the place between reassuring and authoritative and he feels himself sliding rather close to the way he speaks to pediatric patients, and that’s bound to come off as patronizing. 

He changes tone, swearing for good measure. 

“And bloody hell, you’ll _enjoy_ it. If I didn’t think you would, I’d not even force it on you. But I sodding know you and I’ll put a bandage over this and you’ll spend the rest of the day at work secretly delighted that you’re not just hiding a laceration but pink sutures. I’m upping your game, mate. You’ll think of it in a meeting and have a small thrill.”

“That,” Wayne says with a slight dip of his head, “is probably true.”

“So I’ll not feel badly then,” Dev says, pulling a suture through. 

“Would you have if you’d been wrong?”

Dev ties off the suture and lifts his head to look at the other man.

“No,” he says with a grin, even though he would have.

Wayne chuckles.

“This is why I keep you around, Dev,” he says with a sigh. Dev glances again at Wayne’s face when Wayne is looking down at the sutures. There are five of them now, bold pink against the skin and the blood. But Dev sees that Wayne’s face is pale and there are dark crescents under his eyes. 

“And here I rather thought it was for my singing voice,” Dev says, returning to his work.

“You don’t sing nearly enough to justify that.”

“I could change that,” Dev says. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll do all of _Brave Sir Robin_. I’ll even get Alfie down here to do the interruptions.”

“Do you know all of _Brave Sir Robin_?” Wayne asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I learned it in uni to spite a professor,” Dev says. “I don’t know that it accomplished quite what I’d hoped but it’s not been the worst misjudgement I’ve made. Bloody annoying when it’s stuck in my head during surgery, though.”

Dev ties off a suture and uses the needle holder to pull the final one through the edges of the laceration.

“I think you ought to talk to Dr. Thompkins,” he says quietly again.

“Don’t,” Wayne says, sharp and warning, the word like petrol spilled in the air between them.

“I got the story out of Steph,” Dev continues, risking the spark of his words. “It’s bloody fucked up, what Thompkins did.”

“Yes, it is,” Wayne says, like flint and steel together. They’re a single misstep away from explosion and Dev is trying so bloody hard not to show his nerves. 

“But my da almost killed me once,” he says. “And I’d give the world for him to apologize and mean it, even if I never spoke to him again. I’m not bloody suggesting you be best mates. Just don’t let it fester. Infection spreads if you don’t tend it.”

“Would you forgive your father?” Wayne asks, each word like the countdown on a bomb.

“Bugger me, but I’m trying,” Dev says, tying off the stitch and sitting back. “He’s my da. I’m furious with him most days. I always will be. But I’m trying bloody hard not to let him poison everything. It doesn’t mean I’ve said it’s okay, how he acted. But I grew up watching bitterness and hatred tear him and his parents apart and it fucking terrifies me that I could end up the same way. It’s not a good way to live.”

“Hn,” Wayne says. 

Dev grabs a package of gauze and can’t look the other man in the face. It seems like the situation is externally defusing instead of escalating, but now he’s trying to gather the remnants from internal explosion.

“I’ll consider it,” Wayne says when Dev tapes the gauze down. 

“I’m sorry,” Dev says, tidying the tray. “It’s well out of my bounds. And I feel bloody awful bringing it up when you’re so knackered.”

“I hate Arkham,” Wayne says in response. “No. I hate _going_ to Arkham.”

“Who was it tonight?” Dev asks, relieved that they’re just moving on. He feels like he dodged a bullet he threw himself in front of. “I’ve been deep in research all night, until you rang.”

“Kirk Langstrom,” Wayne sighs again, a short and terse exhalation. “Parole violation. He’ll be out again in a week. It’s more containment than anything.”

Dev shudders. 

“If I ever get into drug testing, stop me,” Dev says. “Even if you have to bloody tie me down.”

“Deal,” Wayne says. “I think–”

“Bats!”

The monitor speakers burst to life across the room and Wayne stands and activates the local comm.

“O,” he says, “I’m here.”

“Getting reports out of Arkham. They’re in lockdown. There was a breakout not long after you left tonight.”

“Who?” Wayne asks, reaching behind him for the discarded bottom shirt layer of the suit on the gurney. “And where now?”

“Are you sitting down? I think you should sit down,” Oracle says, a little hesitant. Dev stands, sensing disaster and knowing Wayne won’t sit.

“O,” Wayne says sharply.

“No one is _out_ out,” she says, and her voice is oddly soft. “Zsasz got out of his cell. I’ve got three deaths reported. A guard, and…”

“Damn it, Barbara, out with it,” Wayne barks. The computer screen lights up with a video feed of her face and Dev can see that her eyes are full of tears but she doesn’t look sad, exactly.

“Zsasz and the Joker,” she says, looking at them across the Cave as the camera finds their heat signature. “Murder-suicide. I have the security footage already but I think if you want any chance at confirming the bodies, you should go now before they move them.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Wayne says and he sounds angry. 

“We can sort it out after,” Babs says. “But Bats…”

She swallows and pushes her red hair out of her face.

“Bruce, I _need_ you to make sure it’s him.”

“It’s not,” Wayne says, pulling away from Dev and tugging the shirt over his head. “It’s escape or a trap. I’m going now. Get Black Bat and Red Robin. And O,” Wayne pauses while he looks around and Dev hands him the cape and cowl from the counter.

“O, do _not_ let Jason or Damian find out. Call Martha Kent and tell her to keep the TV and radio off and get them outside, off their phones when they wake up. It’s going to hit soon.”

“Gotham 8 is already reporting,” she says. “I’ll let her know.”

“Dev,” Wayne turns to him. “Stick around.”

“Dad’s calling you,” Oracle says. “Bat-Signal lit.”

“Patch me to his phone,” Wayne says, striding to the Batmobile as he pulls his cowl on. “I’m going straight to Arkham.”

Dev is left in the empty Cave, the computer screen gone to black before the car is all the way out of the bay.

He cleans up the tray and scrubs things down and waits. Fifteen minutes go by, then thirty. 

Dev hums to himself while he sanitizes the surfaces of entire medical unit. He organizes a drawer of things dumped and left behind– a pair of tangled earbuds, a batarang with blunt edges, a single ballet flat, a broken bootlace, a handful of scribbled post-it notes in code with accompanying doodles.

He takes a moment to peer at those and then decides it looks like Kent’s handwriting. He doesn’t throw anything in the rubbish bin but merely straightens it all in the drawer.

An hour and a half has passed and he keeps glancing at his mobile and then decides to scrub the medical unit floor. He’s just knelt with a bucket of water and soap and a rag when Alfie comes down, bleary-eyed but with tea.

“I’ve just awoken and heard,” the older man says. 

“This floor will only take a minute,” Dev says, frowning at a bit of sticky dust behind a gurney wheel.

When he finishes, he stands and accepts the tea and they sit in silence for a bit. The faint roar of an engine catches Dev’s attention and the Batmobile skids into the bay again.

Batman leaps out.

“Alfred, find a hooded cape and a domino mask for Dev,” he says. “Dev, I need you to identify some bodies. Get in the Batmobile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This and two more chapters. :/ 
> 
> Kent Farm starting next week!


	43. Zsasz, Victor xx/xx; Doe, John (Alias: Joker) xx/xx  #ARK 06/16. GCPD Morgue; C

It would be nearly impossible for Dev to keep his cool while riding shotgun in the Batmobile if it wasn’t for being hyper-focused on both what Batman is saying to him and the black bag on his lap.

He has a domino mask on that itches in a weird way near his eyes; he might have a mild allergy to the adhesive. He ignores the feeling. He has a hood pulled up on his head, hanging far off his hair and casting his whole face and line of vision in shadow.

The black bag on his lap is not his medkit; a brief discussion he and Wayne had almost entirely without words left him decided that it was pointless gear and too potentially recognizable. The bag contains a few tools, two DNA kits, a handful of plastic evidence bags, and dental record imprint kits.

“Red is disabling the security cameras in the morgue right now,” Oracle says through the car speakers. “Black Bat is assisting at Arkham. Uploading tunnel overlay to your cowl now, B.”

“Gordon is giving us twenty minutes,” Batman says to Dev. “Neither of us trust the city coroner. We’re going to the morgue underneath the police station. Keep that mask on, your hood up. You aren’t doing autopsies, just confirming death and taking samples. Throat swab, hair, blood, and teeth. The cameras will be off but speak as little as possible.”

Dev nods.

“If they are not dead,” Batman says, and he pauses.

“They’re dead,” Oracle says. “You saw them at Arkham and escorted the bodies. Even if it’s not them, whoever it is, is dead.”

“If they are not dead,” Batman repeats, “I don’t care how close to death they look. You go out the way we came in as fast as you can. Ditch the mask and the cape in the tunnel and don’t stop until you are in a crowd.”

Dev nods again, feeling a roil of stress in his stomach for the first time since getting into the car.

The Batmobile stops in an alley and Dev follows Batman through a manhole and down a long ladder; he has to keep reminding himself not to look down, while Cass’s voice echoes in his head, _You are steady, you are steady._

Once his feet hit grating on the bottom, he’s fine. He follows the black cape in the darkness, his way lit only by the ghostly glow of a tiny torch Batman handed him. The man ahead of him moves without light and he guesses there’s some sort of night vision in the mask.

Now on the ground in the underbelly of Gotham, Dev can feel his tension rising like a flash flood. He’s feeling almost sick, entirely out of place, and has to concentrate on each next step.

They hurry through the tunnel and Dev suspects Batman would be going faster if it wasn’t for him. Then they reach another ladder, and they go up and into a utility room, and then creep across a deserted hallway into a brightly lit and cold morgue.

There are two bodies out on tables, covered loosely with white sheets. One is Zsasz, his visible flesh densely packed with puckered scars. The other has green hair with greying roots and white, white skin. They both have deep, severing lacerations on their throats almost to bone, and their fronts are bloodied. It looks like someone was in the middle of cleaning the blood off, or maybe some of it was absorbed by clothing.

And though he knows it has to be purely psychological, Dev’s wrists ache in a way they haven’t for a long time when he looks at Zsasz. It makes him angry.

He steps up to the two tables and sets the black bag down on a counter, opens it, and gets to work; with this task in front of him, his nerves have vanished, his discomfort in the mask dissolves, and he’s absorbed in what he’s doing.

Dev checks for heart beats once, twice, for both bodies. They are both naked under the sheets and when he glances over at Batman, the man says, “We incinerated the clothes at Arkham.”

The body temperatures have significantly dropped in both corpses, but rigor mortis hasn’t quite set in yet, so it is easy to prop open jaws and swab throats, to manipulate dental putty in the stainless steel mold and wedge it into the mouths.

He takes hair and bags it, changing gloves between each body, and then draws thickening blood through syringes, using the suction of the pull in absence of pumping hearts.

Dev is certain both men are dead, actually dead. Even clever drug work wouldn’t be able to imitate the stiffening muscles and tell-tale stench. Still, the world he lives in proves itself to be a profoundly weird one, over and over.

He glances at the coroner’s tools on the counter by his bag. He looks over at Batman.

The other man is watching the clock and giving orders through his cowl. It’s been thirteen minutes.

Dev looks down at the bodies.

He thinks about Jason.

His wrists throb.

And then he stops thinking and he moves.

He pulls a face shield on, on top of the mask and beneath the hood, picks up the nearby drill and flips Joker’s body first. Batman whirls at the thud, Dev sees out of the corner of his eye, but Dev already has the drill in his hand.

“What are you–” Batman starts to demand but Dev doesn’t hear the rest. It’s drowned by the sound of the drill biting into flesh and bone at the base of the skull.

Within a few seconds the bit has torn through the spinal cord and he angles it with a turn of his wrist, and it shreds upwards into the medulla. Then he shuts the drill off and moves to Zsasz.

“What are you doing?” Batman says again, his voice stiff.

But Dev was told not to talk much if he could help it, so he doesn’t bother explaining everything, all his reasoning. He just says, “Making sure they stay dead.”

Batman doesn’t move forward to stop him and Dev rolls Zsasz over next. He leaves them both face down on the tables when he’s done, and he sets the drill back on the counter.

“Done,” he says, removing the face shield and peeling off his gloves.

Without another word, they leave.

They retreat through the tunnels and speed through the pre-dawn streets.

Oracle speaks once through the car, to give them an update: “Black Bat is in the Cave with Batgirl; Nightwing enroute out of suit, Red is upstairs.”

“Tell A to keep them out of the Cave. And let Gordon know we tampered with the bodies. From my line,” Batman says and the comm is silent.

Dev is quiet until they pull into the auto bay of the Cave.

Then he pulls the hood back, rips the itchy mask off, and says, “Even if they come back somehow, those sick fucks will never walk or think again.”

Batman just looks at him for a long moment and Dev can’t see his face to guess what he’s thinking.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “Thank you.”

Dev climbs out of the Batmobile and goes straight to the medical unit.

“Gathering this was something you could have done yourself,” he says, when Wayne has taken his cape and cowl off and is loading DNA samples from the vault into the computer for comparison.

“I don’t trust myself to be impartial,” Wayne says. “I would never be certain enough.”

Dev sets up the DNA sequencing alongside him for the samples, with repeated hand-washing and glove changes and sanitation scrubs and ultraviolet purification baths between each one.

Then there’s nothing to do but wait.

Nothing for him to do, anyway.

Wayne pulls up a video feed on the computer and starts it without speaking.

Dev stands next to the computer chair and his stomach clenches when he realizes what it is that they are watching.

It’s the security footage from Arkham.

Wayne leans forward and adjusts the volume and then says, “You don’t have to watch.”

There is something in the quality of his voice that makes Dev decide he needs to watch anyway.

The camera must have been mounted in a corner of the room, because the action was filmed at an angle, but the quality is surprisingly high for a prison.

It is just the Joker in his cell, in an inmate’s jumpsuit shuffling a deck of cards. The camera picks up the noise of a scuffle outside the room and in the video, Joker stands.

Zsasz forces his way through the door with a makeshift knife in his hand, and the Joker takes a step back. Zsasz is screaming and it is so frenzied that it takes Dev a second to make out what he is saying.

_”You knew he couldn’t die! You set me up! You knew he couldn’t die! You were doing it just to fuck with me!”_

_”No, Zazzy, of course not!”_ The Joker is protesting, hands up in a placating way. He’s got a card spinning in his fingers and they move so fast that Dev doesn’t register at first that he’s flicked it like a throwing star out of his hand at at the other villain.

But it hits Zsasz’s chest and flutters to the ground uselessly.

_”Aw, look at that, Zazzy. Our guards are learning. They don’t give me real cards anymore.”_

What he’s saying isn’t working and Zsasz is nearly purple with rage. He doesn’t wait any longer and with a snarling leap, he’s on the other man. His arm swings hard and fast and splits the Joker’s neck wide open, blood splurting and spraying wildly. The clown sags down, gurgling helplessly.

 _”And don’t you fucking laugh,”_ Zsasz says, holding his bare foot above the Joker’s throat and kicking the other man’s pawing hands away from the wound.

Then he lifts the same knife and Dev hears him say, “ _Counts all off. Can’t fix it. Who do I kill that won’t die, to balance the marks? Too many, too many, not enough. This one’s for you, Jokes._ ” And right before he draws it hard and deep across his own throat, Dev looks away.

He returns his gaze to the screen after the soft thump of the second body falling.

Wayne taps the keyboard and pauses the footage.

He inhales and exhales deeply and slowly.

Then he rewinds and starts it again.

Dev puts a hand on Wayne’s shoulder for a moment and then goes to wash his hands and face again in the medical unit. He’s already cleaned the whole thing but he cleans it again just to have a reason to keep Wayne company.

The footage plays again, then again, then again.

The DNA sequences are still running.

The eighth time the footage starts, Dev takes in a shuddering breath and calls,

“Wayne. Give it a rest.”

Wayne ignores him and it plays through to the end.

When it starts again, the concern he feels overrides any lingering reserve about ordering the other man around. He feels much the same that he did nearly two years ago, yelling at Bruce Wayne in a hospital room, sensing both that it is needed and that the circumstances are unusual.

“Bruce!” he bellows, and the other man jumps a little in the chair, and looks over his shoulder. His eyes are wide and haunted. Dev hops down the two steps from the medical unit, crosses the mats, takes all three steps up to the computer bay in one stride and then leans forward and pauses the footage with the tap of a key.

“Enough,” Dev says quietly. “They aren’t going to be any more dead. And they _are_ dead. I’ll watch the DNA sequencing like a hawk. No one else will touch it. But we hardly sodding need it. Take yourself upstairs to Alfred.”

“I…” Wayne glances at the screen and then back at Dev and it’s clear that he’s wrestling with himself. He is motionless except for the struggle Dev can see in his face and then he slumps back in the chair.

“Kiran, I thought I’d have to kill him someday,” he says, and his words are small and lost. “I always thought it would come to that.”

“Bloody hell,” Dev says, leaning against the lip of the desk and crossing his arms. “But you’re shite at good news.”

Wayne looks up at him with something  wounded in his expression.

“I should be glad. What’s wrong with me that I don’t enjoy it?”

“That?” Dev turns to look at the screen. “Are you serious, mate? Bloody hell. Alright, I’m going to chalk this up to your clear exhaustion and that this is evidently a sodding massive blind spot for you, because I don’t think I’d need to tell you this under normal conditions.

“Of course you don’t enjoy it. You shouldn’t. That man suffered horribly, _horribly_ , as he died and no matter how much he may have bloody deserved it, it was suffering. And you aren’t him, or any of the villains your lot fights. Maybe you’ve fantasized about him dying, sure. But you know that isn’t reality.”

“You don’t even know half of what he’s done to my family,” Wayne says, and instead of the warning undercurrent of anger Dev was hoping for, he sounds pleading. Wayne puts his head in his hands and sounds close to tears. “I owe Jason at least…I should be happy. This should make me happy. That he’s dead. That I didn’t have to do it. That it wasn’t one of my boys. That it wasn’t Cass or Steph.”

Dev crouches down with his back to the desk, to try to catch Wayne’s eyes under his hands, to make some sort of contact so that he knows the other man is listening to him, is hearing him. Wayne tents his fingers across his brow like a visor, his thumbs propped along the sides of his face, while he leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He looks for all the world like he’s collapsing in on himself. His focus flicks to Dev’s face for just a second, but it’s long enough.

“Death is always ugly,” Dev says quietly. “I’ve had men good and bad die under the knife and it is always, _always_ ugly. You know that. Someday bloody soon, maybe even later today, you will wake up and feel relief that he’s gone. You will be glad that he’s dead. But you might never be glad that he _died_ and it’s a sodding small but important difference. If it didn’t matter, you would have killed him years ago, because it’s not about the fucking justice system or civil rights. It’s that it isn’t our place to decide when someone’s chances have run out or when their time is up. Life is so bloody fragile and dying is fucking awful. And even if you feel swelling joy and bloody fireworks inside at the fact that he’s gone, I don’t think it a betrayal in the least if that footage makes you sick. It ought to, frankly.”

“I think I’m responsible for him,” Wayne says softly. “I’ve always thought that. I think I created him.”

“Bloody fuck,” Dev exclaims, more loudly than he meant to. “Sod it all, Bruce, you aren’t a god. Evil’s always been about.”

“If I hadn’t been here, working in Gotham–”

“Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” Dev says simply and Wayne’s mouth clamps shut, cutting off whatever he was saying.

“He would have found someone else,” Dev continues, “or gone somewhere else. But he’s dead now and as your doctor, I think you ought to try to get some rest instead of sitting here surprised that watching a gruesome death doesn’t curl your toes with pleasure. It’s not the sort of man you are. Do you want something to help you sleep?”

“No,” Wayne sits up and takes a deep breath. “You’re right. About all of it. But I’m not ready to sleep. I need to call Jason and I don’t want to call until the DNA tests finish.”

“It’s another hour, maybe two,” Dev says. “Go sleep on the gurney and I’ll wake you the minute it’s done.”

For a moment, he thinks Wayne will rally enough to protest being bossed about, but instead he just nods and stands and leaves the computer with the frame frozen at the moment the Joker has thrown the playing card.

Dev stares at it, barely even actually seeing it, and then shakes himself and sits in the vacated chair. He spins a little in the chair to partially face the medical unit.

The other man has dropped the armored chestplate on the floor and dragged his boots off and left them in a heap. While Dev watches, Wayne hops onto the gurney and stretches out.

“Want a lullaby, mate? I should earn my keep,” Dev calls across the practice mats. There’s a choked laugh in response.

“No,” Wayne says, sounding more like himself.

Satisfied with the reaction, Dev turns back to the computer and looks up at the frozen image on the screen once more.

He studies the pasty skin and the wild green hair. Zsasz he had met before; Zsasz is a man he doesn’t want to think about, because he’s _finally_ gotten fairly good at keeping Zsasz out of his head and his dreams and he doesn’t want to start that shite back up.

Honestly, he can only imagine how Wayne is actually doing internally, because he’s barely on the border of the map of this hellish landscape and Dev’s just waiting himself for it to really settle in past the initial shock and disbelief that at least one– two– nightmares are gone.

He wishes he’d thought to keep the drill bit he’d skewered their brains with; it wasn’t surgery, it absolutely was _not_ surgery, because if there has been even the barest hint of remaining life he wouldn’t have dared. Thinking about it makes him feel queasy, like the Arkham footage itself.

No, it was an insurance policy against the science fiction that is now his actual life. And he feels idiotic for not holding on to the receipt of it. Even if doesn’t make sense (it’s not, after all, like he understands exactly how resurrection works, and he knows this to be a thing he cannot and does not want to know, he who is _always_ curious), it would be useful to be able to pass it around– to hold it himself, to hand it to Wayne or Jason or Alfie or Babs or any of them and say, “This is the one that made a sodding pulp of his medulla, the stem of everything a brain can do with a body.”

But he didn’t keep it and maybe it’s for the best. It would have been theft, after all, and from the police no less. And there is a deep pang of fear, previously unconsidered, at that: he tampered with bodies _in a police station_ while wearing a mask. He could lose his visa, permanently, for that shite. He could go to prison or be deported with no hope of return to the place he’s come to consider home, with a scraped together kind of family and a sister he’s just beginning to know again.

The thought of losing it all is a thought he flees from, away from the lump in his throat and the tightness in his chest and the sweat slick on his palms.

Then he sees it again, the stilled image, and he remembers. He remembers doing neurological testing on those exposed to laughing toxins, those who had just barely survived; tracking the brain activity of those who would never really be okay again. He remembers talking gently and quietly to scarred minds and knowing their only crime was being in Gotham, at the wrong time and the wrong street or restaurant or sporting event.

Then his fear dissolves into a hard and determined resolve and he doesn’t regret his actions or the risk he’s accrued. The technicality of legalities aside, Gotham is a city that requires unorthodox methods and solutions and fallback measures.

And he’s never been in a city quite like Gotham, even in all his travel for conferences and research presentations and studies of surgical advances. When he first arrived, the darkness was oppressive and it felt like a challenge to him, to do good in a place so opposed to it. Those first months had felt rather like a _bloody fuck you_ to his own demons and the sense of himself as a man merely faking his skill and courage.

But the longer he’s stayed, the more the darkness has turned to glimpses of beauty– the salty breeze across the bay on a navy dark night, the sheltering shadow of the Vernon mountains on a muggy afternoon, the drifting fog outside early morning cafe runs by people who defiantly refuse to be stuck cowering in their houses or flats.

He thinks of an immigrant woman willing to protect Red Hood from a stranger, of the tenacity of nurses working double shifts after Arkham breakouts, the fact that it is the city that houses Arkham and staunchly refuses to give up on those the entire world has written off.

The thing he’s found here, after all, in the midst of the churning evil and threat of death and constant danger, is _hope_. There is something striking and foreign and astounding to him about the city that both produced the tragedies of Wayne and his children’s histories and also drew them to stay. He feels as if he stayed to poke at it, to try to understand it, this refusal to run from one’s worst fears, and has somehow become a part of it. And now even though he doesn’t fully comprehend it, Gotham has entered his bloodstream and shaped his thoughts and he feels fiercely protective of the city and its people and, more than anything, its defenders.

He is bewildered and honored that he is now part of this last line against the darkness. And he can see it, the wickedness that surges and swells in a furious attempt to crush and suffocate that hope, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He recognizes it as something he saw in his own da’s eyes over and over, but is only recently beginning to understand: the hatred fueled by perceived threat, the violent rejection of the audacity of love, a self-condemnation rooted in terror.

Things that need hope the most, he thinks, are the things most likely to shy away from it or even resist it altogether, and he can imagine without ever stepping foot in Arkham that the real horror there is the long lines of cells full of wretched hearts that cannot and will not believe in the offer of redemption.

So he wasn’t saying falsely consoling things to Wayne, for whatever it’s worth. He himself is glad, deeply and thoroughly glad, at the evil the night has erased from the world, but he is heartbroken at the cost, at even moments of suffering. His consolation is the future suffering it will spare, but he is selfishly relieved he did not have to make that call and also now firmly convinced that ensuring it couldn’t be undone was the right thing to do.

Maybe he’s a stupid man, maybe he’s mental or too soft, or doesn’t understand fully what it is he’s committed himself to when he clings to tendrils of light for himself and for others. But he is also just who he is and he’s finally, finally, finally coming to terms with that.

There’s a beep from the smaller computer monitor to his right and he startles up in the chair, certain he didn’t sleep but not altogether sure he was awake.

Wayne is at his side, leaning over the desk and tapping a key, then scrolling through the information on the display. He’s still rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand but he looks far more composed than he did an hour ago.

“You alright?” he asks, glancing down at Dev.

Dev stands and stretches, looks over the data with him as Wayne slows for each block.

“Yeah,” Dev yawns. “Just thinking.”

“Hn,” Wayne says. “It was him.”

He straightens and Dev leans forward now, scans the percentages and comparisons and nods.

“Bloody hell, it was.”

“I’m calling Jason,” Wayne says. “I’ll be upstairs after. Tell Alfred. Tell the others.”

Dev knows a dismissal when he hears one, and he isn’t bothered; he might feel like it’s his medical unit by now, but it’s in Wayne’s Cave.

When he steps off the elevator upstairs, he can hear voices in the kitchen. He finds all of them, all the ones that are home, around the table talking. Even Barbara Gordon has come, and Dick is sitting close to her holding her hand. Alfie sees him first and stands to pour him a cup of tea.

The conversation stops and they all look at him: Timothy and Steph and Dick and Cass and Babs and Alfie.

He feels like it isn’t his news to deliver.

But he was given an order. And he’s got his own news to add to it, the way he’s become part of this story, even though he knows he’s just a supporting role.

“It was him,” he says. “He’s dead, and he’s staying that way, because I drilled the bloody hell out of his brain stem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and epilogue!


	44. timothy wayne escapes adolescence. 19 july. gotham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild-retconning ahead for Wendy/Buffy stuff with Conner Kent. Mostly because I already established Firefly as a thing. Sorry this is two days late. Life was kicking my butt; not bad, just busy. Will probably post epilogue tonight since it's already done.

The month following the deaths of Joker and Zsasz is surprising in ways Dev did not anticipate. The biggest and most significant is probably the change most peripheral to him, namely a federal investigation into Arkham security measures that results in more than a dozen transfers of custody to other facilities.

The official story is the need for delegation and transfer of care, citing overcrowding of cells and understaffing. The unofficial story– which Dev only knows because he overheard Wayne discussing it with the JLA while Dev was restocking the medical unit in the background in the Cave– is that most of the inmates submitted plea bargains exchanging information for transfer when the atmosphere in the prison shifted to metaphorically cannibalistic.

It seems that the murder-suicide within their ranks started the unraveling of an uneasy alliance between the inmates, and more than once in the past five weeks, Batman had gone out specifically to intervene in attacks between villains inside Arkham, including one full block riot.

As far as Dev knows, the only week Wayne hadn’t gone to Arkham was the week he was out of town taking Jason to Montana for surgery.

But the Arkham unrest hasn’t impacted Dev very directly, really, other than knowing the source of a few injuries he’s come to the Cave to treat. Because he doesn’t always know. Wayne tends to tell him the cause of injuries only when it’s relevant, the kids follow his lead for the most part, and Dev– in his cautious balance between involvement and boundaries that he’s always trying to maintain– denies his curious nature and doesn’t ask, unless he senses that it might, again, be relevant.

No, the thing that has impacted him most directly, aside from the generally lighter atmosphere of the Manor and Cave, is the fact that only two days after the Joker and Zsasz died, the coroner’s reports were leaked and contained the detail that both villains’ skulls had been drilled into. The report was hazy as to the time it had occurred in relation to death and the security footage of the murder-suicide had been more carefully guarded.

The result was a slew of conspiracy theories–from full-blown online and in sleazier rags to mild allegations in more serious papers– that the entire deal had been a plot to steal the Joker’s brain.

Reasons for this varied by conspiracy: to transplant to another body, to exchange for alien tech, recovery of a botched government experiment, for sacrifice, to open the gates of hell and usher in the Apocalypse.

When Dev saw the first of the articles, he had sputtered helplessly and nervously for thirty seconds and then protested with a wave of his arm, “That’s not even bloody possible! Why the bloody hell go through the base of the skull?”

“I don’t think that’s really the point, Dev,” Timothy had laughed and when Dev looked across to the computer for some support from Wayne, a reminder that this was as _serious as bloody fucking serious got_ , Wayne had been tinkering with a utility belt on the desk surface and not even bothering to hide his slight smile.

Then Dev had understood that it would continue and it was something they needed: the Waynes would pour their conflicted and shaky relationship with joy into teasing him on this one point. It was an excuse to keep talking about it, to remind themselves that the monster was gone, to fling it against doubts that the freedom would last.

So, five weeks in and for every three real calls he receives, every five genuine texts, his mobile buzzes and it will be an article or screenshot of a headline about another theory. Jason regularly sends him Frankenstein memes (where he finds so many, Dev has no idea), Timothy and Steph have started arguing over who will be his right hand in his supposed plan for eventual global domination through brain thieving, and if he feels especially betrayed by anyone, it’s Damian and Alfie and the neatly ordered packing lists or escape routes complete with miniature schematics they keep leaving around the Manor or medical unit for him to find while working.

But he doesn’t complain much, except in jest. He lets them have it. And Wayne doesn’t participate, but he lets it continue, even when it fills pages of group chat. And Dev feels like that’s likely a healthy level of adjustment to the overall attitude of greater freedom, that Wayne at the least is not trying to snuff it out in case the deaths are some sort of trick after all, even though they can’t be.

And they can’t be. Because the DNA passed first and second scans and the dental records matched and Dev drilled some holes in some skulls.

So Dev feels like he can pretty reasonably live with the brunt of conspiracy joking for however long it lasts, if it’s what they need as reminders that it’s over.

But for the past three days, he’s had a welcome break from those particular messages in exchange for a slew of party planning texts in a new group chat that is making him feel entirely too old. One session of hammering out details happened while he was in surgery and it took him a full thirty minutes to slog through the backlog. He is still unwilling to admit how many of the references, abbreviations, and emoji-strings he doesn’t get at all.

He culls enough details, however, that he’s exactly where he is supposed to be at nine in the morning of Timothy Wayne’s 18th birthday, in a maroon bow tie, suspenders, and tweed suit coat and holding a dozen and a half donuts in a yellow box.

Dev knows he’s in the right place because he rides the lift up to Timothy Wayne’s flat with Conner Kent, who is looking even more broad-shouldered and like Clark. Except instead of his usual attire, he’s in a plain black shirt and black jeans and a black trench coat and has somehow dyed his hair a yellowish platinum that reminds Dev of the early 2000s.

“Spike?” Dev asks as they step off the lift into the hall.

In answer, Conner opens his mouth and pulls his lips back to show a pretty convincing pair of fangs.

“Yep,” he says, running his tongue along his teeth, real and fake alike. “We went through a phase. Well, I went through a phase. I got Tim on board last year. This is kind of a victory lap for me.”

Before Dev can reply, Steph comes down the hall from the stairwell, her blonde hair tucked up into a trucker hat. She has on gray high tops and light wash jeans and a puffy orange vest.

“Marty,” he nods to her and Conner is beaming. Cass is following Steph with a white fur cape draped over her shoulders, her cheeks and mouth smeared with red face paint, and a necklace of silicone claws. She’s chewing on one of these while she ambles down the hall, a long spear with a plastic tip in one hand.

“Princess,” Dev grins as she joins them. He didn’t know who the others were coming as, only that Steph had instructed them to choose a costume specific to something they’d shared with Timothy. He’s pleased that he recognizes them all.

It’s Steph who knocks on the door, a gift bag in her hand.

“Did you bring the robe?” Conner asks her.

“Of _course_ I brought the robe,” she answers, waving the gift bag in his face while they wait. “We only spent _three hours_ picking the right one.”

Dev missed this deliberation, too, and he’s rather glad.

“The lightsaber?” Conner asks.

“Yes!” Steph exclaims. “Oh my god, no wonder you are friends. I didn’t forget anything.”

“Is it red?” he asks next.

“No! It’s not red,” Steph says, rolling her eyes. Then she freezes and looks over her shoulder at Dev. “Wait. Was it supposed to be red?”

“Yes!” Conner says at the same time Dev says, “I don’t know!” and Cass is saying, “No.”

Before they can all properly exchange glances, the door opens and a very groggy but fully dressed Timothy Wayne is standing in front of them with eyes growing wider and wider.

“What,” is all he says.

“Let us in, mate,” Dev says, when it’s clear the others are just going to grin like sodding idiots at Timothy. Dev’s still balancing a too-large box of donuts and Cass’ spear keeps dipping dangerously close to one corner.

“Happy birthday!” Steph exclaims, nudging Conner, who echoes her.

“Eighteen,” Cass says. “You made it.”

“Um,” Timothy says, his eyes still wide. “I…you’re…”

“The party committee,” Steph says. “We have a whole day planned before dinner at the Manor, and you’re going to enjoy it or so help me god, Tim, I will hack your Twitter and do _something_ with it.”

“She’s joking,” Conner says. “You don’t have to do any of it.”

“Yes,” Cass says, and Dev thinks it’s unfairly ambiguous and when he looks down at her, she smirks back up at him and he realizes she meant to be.

“You little plonker,” he whispers. “Pick a side.”

“You first,” she whispers back.

They’re still standing in the hall.

Dev pushes past the three teenagers and puts a hand on Timothy’s shoulder, spins him around and guides him into the flat, one hand still balancing the box of donuts.

“Dev,” the boy says.

“The Doctor,” Dev corrects. “Happy birthday.”

He sets the box of donuts down and flips the lid back and for a second he thinks Timothy Wayne might cry.

“There are eighteen,” he says.

The others have followed them in and Steph throws the bag at Timothy from the other side of the small table.

“Happy birthday, Nerdface. Suit up and eat a donut.”

Timothy pulls a long brown robe out of the bag and a plastic lightsaber clatters to the floor.

“It’s not red, I’m sorry,” Conner says while Timothy is picking it up. “I tried to tell her.”

“I’m not helping you become a villain, Tim,” Steph protests, her doubt from the hallway evidently vanished. “It’s not my fault the movies corrupted your favorite color.”

Timothy is smiling but it looks a little forced, Dev thinks. Still, he puts the robe on and clips the lightsaber to his belt and picks up a donut.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he says around a mouthful. “Like, I’m actually speechless. How long have you been planning this?”

“A party committee never reveals its secrets,” Steph answers as she and Cass take donuts from the box.

Between the five of them, a dozen of the donuts are gone within a few minutes.

“So what’s this itinerary?” Timothy asks, a little warily. “Or should I even ask?”

“It’s not that bad, dude,” Conner says. “But you can skip anything you don’t wanna do.”

“Stop telling him that,” Steph says. “We’re doing all of it. _All_ of us,” she emphasizes, with a glance at Dev. “Age is no excuse.”

Dev resists the urge to groan. He knows what’s on the list; he helped make it. He thought it would be a reasonably safe bet that he’d sit a few things out.

“I need shoes, I’m guessing,” Timothy says, licking his fingers off. “Be right back.”

He disappears into his bedroom and Steph produces a roll of crepe paper from her vest pocket and she and Cass toss it back and forth until the room is covered.

“I don’t think that’s how you decorate with that,” Conner says, stepping over a streamer of paper lying limp across the floor.

“I forgot tape,” Steph says. “I’m improvising.”

“I thought you didn’t forget anything,” Conner retorts and Cass raps him on the head with her spear.

Dev closes the box of donuts and then goes to knock on Timothy’s door. There’s no way it’s taken the boy this long to put on slip-on shoes, even if he did have to hunt around for a matching pair.

“Timothy, I’m coming in,” he says, without asking. When there’s no startled protest, he pushes the door open and slips in, and closes it behind him. Steph and Conner are arguing but it sounds good natured; they’re both laughing.

Timothy Wayne is standing in front of his closet, in the Jedi robe and socks, no shoes in his hands or near his feet.

“Which do you want?” Dev asks, shoving the closet door the rest of the way open with his foot and stooping to sort through the pile.

“It doesn’t matter,” Timothy says wearily.

“Brown it is,” Dev replies, settling on the first match he finds. He puts them down on the floor outside of the closet and then faces Timothy, puts his hands on the boy’s shoulders and just looks at his face for a moment.

Timothy is staring a little blankly at the wall next to Dev and then drops his gaze to the carpet.

Dev pulls him into a hug and holds him there for a moment.

“You guys are being so nice,” Timothy says into Dev’s shirt, his voice muffled but dry. “I’ve just had a hard few days and I don’t know why. I’m not upset about my birthday, I just don’t care. I want to go back to bed.”

Dev lets him go and Timothy does slump back to sit on the bed.

“You aren’t going back to bed,” Dev says, sitting on the floor next to Timothy’s neglected shoes. “But I will fiercely guard a block of time for a nap later, if you need it.”

“Ugh,” Timothy says, flopping back on the bed. “This is really amazing, it is. I mean you dressed up as Matt Smith for me–”

“The Doctor,” Dev corrects.

“The Doctor,” Timothy amends, “and I know Steph and Conner worked hard. And Cass! They got Cass to do Princess Mononoke! But the idea of spending all day pretending to be excited about everything is exhausting.”

Dev stands and holds a hand out to Timothy.

“Up,” he says. “Come on, then.”

He pulls Timothy to his feet and points to the shoes.

“On with the slippers. You don’t have to pretend. I don’t want you to fake a single bloody smile. But come along, even if you feel sodding miserable, and feel miserable while you’re doing it anyway. You can sleep after. If it gets to be too much, I’ll smuggle you out. I think you ought to at least give it a go, though, and not stay cooped up in here. If it doesn’t help, we’ll talk and sort it out tonight or tomorrow."

“Alright,” Timothy says, tugging his shoes on.

“Which Jedi are you, mate?”

“Obi-Wan, I guess,” Timothy says. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Old or young Obi-Wan?” Dev asks, pushing the door open. “Or should I not ask?”

Timothy stops at the edge of the living room and stares around at the mess of crepe paper draped over the floor and all of the furniture.

“Usually, I think that’s supposed to hang up, but A for effort?” he says, and Conner motions to Steph.

“Not my fault! Steph didn’t bring tape.”

“And you brought _so many things_ , Kon,” Steph shoots back with a slight glare, before smiling at Timothy. “Ready? We’ve got a bit of a drive.”

“You still haven’t told me what’s on this list,” Timothy whinges, looking over the box of donuts again.

“I’ll text it to you,” Steph answers. “I’m kinda surprised you haven’t already hacked my phone to look, Junior Detective. That’s what I thought you were doing in there.”

“You okay?” Conner asks, while blocking feigned attacks from Cass’ spear with one hand. Cass stops and looks over at Timothy.

In response, Timothy draws the Jedi hood up over his head and looks at his mobile, reading over the list Steph just sent him. He’s eating another donut, but beneath the shadow of the hood and around the chocolate icing, Dev can make out a slight smile tugging on the corner of Timothy’s mouth. When he looks up, he nods.

“I’m okay,” he says. “Not great, but okay. Some of these are freaking me out a little but whatever. What does ‘ink and drink’ mean?”

“I told you that was confusing,” Conner grumbles.

“You’re just jealous I’m better at making lists,” Steph says. “It’s coffee, round two, and ten minutes of idle doodling for destressing.”

“I don’t think it’s idle if you’ve scheduled it,” Dev says, earning him a glare from Steph and a relieved expression of solidarity from Conner.

“I’m just relieved you aren’t forcing me into a tattoo,” Timothy says before Steph can answer that, “I was sort of expecting that after your 18th birthday candle fiasco. Let’s go.”

“Whatever Dev says, I do not _force_ people into tattoos,” Steph says defensively. “And it is idle doodling if–”

She stops because she’s lost their attention.

All three of the others are staring at Dev while he desperately attempts to salvage his expression into a scowl instead of open horror.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, putting a hand over his face instead.

“Ohmygod,” Steph exhales. “I’m…ohmygod. I’m so sorry, I promised, I swore I wouldn’t….”

“Dev,” Timothy says, and he looks like he’s forcing worry but there’s an actual grin creeping across his face. “Dev, did Steph bully you into a tattoo?”

“Tim! I don’t bully people!” Steph exclaims, her own shock unable to keep her silent against the allegation.

“There was no bullying,” Dev sighs. “It was voluntary and we’re going to forget anyone said bloody anything about it.”

“No, no,” Timothy says, “no. You didn’t say anything about this to me and now I want to know why. Steph knows, apparently, or I wouldn’t ask.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steph says again, and when he glances at her through his fingers, he can see she’s flushed bright red under her tilted trucker cap.

“In my feeble defense,” Dev says, resigning himself to defeat, “it was chosen on a whim and to cover up a drunken uni mistake.”

And he decides in that moment he won’t be embarrassed about it. It takes monumental effort of will to shove himself to that point, but even if it makes him sodding sentimental as bloody hell, that moment where Steph jokingly suggested it and he looked at it in the portfolio and was struck by fierce fondness for the lot of them still rings true.

He tugs his tucked-in button up from the waist of his slacks and pulls up the side a bit, to reveal the red-breasted robin perched on his hip bone.

Three of the teens crowd around him to see and maybe he should be bloody pissed off at Steph but he rather feels like he mostly brought it on himself.

“That’s a robin,” Timothy says. He looks up at Dev’s face. “For us?”

Dev gives a small shrug.

“For all of you,” he admits. “It’s sodding sentimental nonsense but I think I’ve gone soft.”

“I can’t even laugh at that,” Timothy says, straightening and putting a hand on his lightsaber. “What is it covering up?”

“The name of his own true love,” Steph says, relaxing now that she sees Dev isn’t angry. “Come on, I’ll tell you the whole story in the car. Let’s go! First item is coffee, round one.”

“Next, a bat,” Cass says, her eyes shining as Dev tucks his shirt back in. “For me.”

“The robin,” Dev says firmly, “is for _all_ of you. No more tattoos.”

She pokes him with the spear but doesn’t look upset. Conner and Timothy are already out in the hall and she darts after them. Steph is hanging back by the door and when he reaches her, she gives him a weak grimace.

“Sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s alright,” he says, offering his arm. She hooks hers through his. “It wasn’t as awful as I feared it might be, coming clean.”

“Good,” she says. “Because I’m going to really talk up the Amy story. I’ve thought of stuff to add.”

Dev groans as they join the others on the lift; Timothy’s been holding the door for them. When it slides shut, Steph looks around.

“Coffee, then the South Lincoln playground,” she says.

“Is that the condemned one?” Timothy asks. “With the super high swings?”

“You got it,” Steph confirms. “And five bucks says Dev pukes after the merry-go-round.”

“I’m not getting on a sodding roundabout,” Dev grumbles. “I’ve got some dignity left. I’ll spin you. That’s the extent of my involvement.”

“Kon is going to spin us,” Timothy says, decidedly, giving Steph a challenging look. “If you think you can take it.”

“You’re on,” she retorts. “Cass?”

Cass nods once in answer.

“I’m gonna go easy on you,” Conner warns. “Even if you brought along your doctor, I don’t wanna stop the party for broken bones.”

“I second that,” Dev says, giving Conner an appreciative smile. The other boy grins at him and the fangs are startling.

In the car park, there is a brief and confused debate about which car to take or if they should take two, and they end up settling on taking Dev’s hatchback together.

After getting coffee and tea, during which stop Steph insists on them using their costumed names for orders, they head across the city for the playground in a neglected park in run-down suburban outskirts. Timothy gives directions while Conner and Steph are both texting, but Dev doesn’t ask if they’re texting each other or someone else. They both stop a few minutes before they arrive.

“This is your farewell to childhood,” Steph says to Timothy when they’re climbing out of the car. “So enjoy it. Look, there’s Dick!”

She waves across the playground and Dick Grayson waves back from where he’s hanging upside down from some monkey bars. He flips down and jogs over to meet them.

“Happy birthday, Timmy!” Dick says, ruffling Timothy’s hair under the Jedi hood. “I managed to get the day off at the last minute, or I’d be dressed up.”

“It’s okay,” Timothy says. “Kon’s gonna try to throw us off the merry-go-round if you want to join.”

“That’s not what I said,” Conner insists, but he’s going with them anyway.

Dev sits in one of the long, tall swings and lets himself sway a bit while he sips his tea. There are empty coffee and hot chocolate cups in the hatchback but he’d left his mostly alone while driving.

He watches across the playground as the outdated roundabout spins, likely faster than it’s ever gone in however many years of life it’s had. The laughing from the roundabout turns to giggling and then shrieking but none of them fall off. When it slows, all of them stumble off and slump dizzily in the grass and Dev lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Okay!” Steph says, staggering up after a moment. She’s still swaying and laughing a little.

“I don’t know why I came,” Dick mumbles, looking a little green.

“Okay,” Steph repeats, “next item on the list.”

Dev’s only halfway through his tea.

“Don’t rush me,” Timothy protests, helping Cass to her feet. She’s straightening her Mononoke necklace and giggling helplessly. “I want to swing.”

“Again,” Cass is saying to Conner. “Let’s do it again.”

“I’m game,” Steph says, hopping back on the roundabout with Cass.

Timothy takes the swing next to Dev and starts pumping his legs. Dick takes the one next to Timothy while the girls are screaming across the grass. On one of Timothy’s upward climbs, the lightsaber falls off his belt and tumbles across the rotting mulch.

Dev sips his tea. It’s now nearly gone.

“Swing, Dev!” Timothy orders when his swing is at the bottom of its arc.

Dev sets the tea down against the support beam and starts swinging, gaining air and speed as he goes. With the three of them, the swingset is trembling a bit ominously so Dev doesn’t try to match the height or speed of the others. He watches the sky rush toward him and recede and then closes his eyes.

He hasn’t been on a swing in over twenty years. He’s fairly certain the last time he was, he was drunk and with a girl who he later found out thought they were dating even though he didn’t know and they’d never talked about it.

When there’s a sudden jolt of the frame, he opens his eyes in alarm, but it’s just that Dick has flipped off a swing to land on his feet. The swing chain rattles and pops along through the air behind him. He goes to accept Steph’s shouted offer of a game of chicken on the monkey bars, and Conner is spinning Cass again. She looks fierce and wild, the fur cape billowing behind her, the spear held aloft in one hand.

Timothy stops pumping his legs until the lazy pace of his swing matches Dev’s.

“Thanks for making me get out,” he says quietly. “I’m feeling a little better already.”

“No worries, mate,” Dev says. “Say the bloody word if you need a break.”

They swing in silence for a while and then Steph yells, while adjusting her hat, “C’mon, you nerds! We gotta go! Things to do!”

Timothy hops off the swing, his Jedi robe fluttering in the air. He snags the lightsaber from the ground and brushes it off. Dev drags his shoes across the ground to stop himself and then takes his empty cup.

“What’s next?” Dick asks, throwing an arm around Timothy’s shoulders. “I’ll follow on my bike.”

“The Golden Coin,” Steph says.

“Is that place still open?” Dick sounds surprised. “Huh. Skee ball?”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna run you losers into the ground,” Steph says.

“As long as I get a candy necklace out of this, I don’t care,” Timothy tells her. “That place has the best candy necklaces. Or they they used to, anyway.”

Later in the evening, after skee ball, an arcade visit, lunch, coffee again, a photography gallery where they get some raised eyebrows at their costumes, and then dinner at the Manor, Timothy has not once given Dev any indication that he needs a break but Dev is feeling like the threat to run them into the ground was literal.

Wayne wore the dark green cape Cass had given him for his own birthday all through dinner, leaving only Alfie and Dick without costume of any kind. When Steph pressed him for a label for his costume, Wayne had raised an eyebrow and asked, “What costume?”

“Aragorn,” Timothy had decided and Wayne didn’t agree, but he didn’t dispute it.

It is late when Dev is leaning back on the couch in the Manor watching Conner and Timothy play a video game and willing himself to get up and leave them be, but feeling like he can’t move.

Then Conner pauses the game and stretches.

“I gotta go. I said I’d take a turn in the Tower tonight. Happy birthday!”

“Thanks, Kon,” Timothy says, standing. “For everything.”

When Conner leaves, Timothy sits next to Dev on the couch and hands him the extra controller. He yawns and reaches for the cup of coffee he had left on the table.

“This was a good birthday,” he says quietly. “Thanks.”

“It was mostly Conner and Steph,” Dev says, navigating back to the game menu. “But congrats. You’re eighteen. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better,” Timothy sighs, slouching back and thumbing the joystick to pick a character on his half of the screen. “You know, this was the first game we ever played together?”

“I remember,” Dev says. “And you can always tell me if you’re having a hard time.”

“I know,” Timothy says, looking down at his hands. “It’s not bad all the time, I just have blah days. Or weeks. But thanks. And thanks for not asking why. I don’t really have reasons. People ask and then I feel bad, about feeling bad. It’s stupid.”

“Don’t,” Dev says firmly, picking a map from the screen. “You’ve a right to feel awful if you want. You don’t have to sodding justify it.”

Timothy laughs and jiggles the trigger button while the next part of the game loads.

“Don’t unequip your bloody rifle to heal me,” Dev says sternly. “You’ll get us both killed.”

“I can heal you if I want. Don’t rush by ammo restocks. It was your own fault you weren’t carrying enough. And don’t horde the medkits.”

“I can’t help it,” Dev protests, “it’s in my nature.”

“I know, I know,” Timothy grumbles with a broad smile, reaching over to flick the bowtie Dev is still wearing. “Don’t even say it or I’ll retract my best mate status.”

“You can’t,” Dev retorts, his character already off at a run. “I won’t allow it. And don’t sodding tell me what to do, you’re only just eighteen. I’ll say it if I want.”

“Dev, I’m the Fae King. Age means nothing to me,” Timothy says, interrupting himself to say, “right there! Go back for that ammo! And don’t say it. I’m serious.”

“I’m the Doctor,” Dev grins at him and Timothy laughs.

“Alright, it was an empty threat. I retract nothing. This was an awesome birthday.”

“Good,” Dev says, nodding. “You ought to have a brilliant one.”

Then Dev looks at the screen again just to see his own character staggering under fire. Timothy’s avatar is pulling out an oafishly large syringe while enemies advance.

“Timothy!” Dev snaps in alarm, everything else forgotten for a moment. “What the bloody hell? Leave me! I’ve my own medkit! _Equip your minging rifle!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR COMING WITH ME ON THIS WONDERFUL JOURNEY. Epilogue soon and we're done!


	45. fuck chicago. 27 july. home.

The only reason Dev even goes to the Manor after his hospital shift is because he wants to look over a box of new moldable splints Alfie says arrived from Wayne R&D during the morning.

He has a faint headache that’s been there for hours, just a dull throb at the front of his head, but it might not turn into anything and he ignores it.

By the time he’s holding a splint in his hands, he realizes it was a massive mistake. It’s turned into an elastic kind of pounding, each blow drawn taut and then slamming back into him, until the pain is centered just a few inches above his eyes but radiating in waves across the whole of his skull.

He can’t even focus on the splint so he packs it back in the box, leaves the box on the counter, and goes upstairs.

“Will you stay for dinner, Kiran?” Alfie asks as he goes through the front hall.

“Thanks, but no,” Dev answers, pausing in the foyer long enough to answer. He puts a few fingers to his brow, along an old scar, as if pressing might hold back the pain that is now like a jabbing icepick. His back is to the older man so he lets himself scrunch his eyes for a moment, then he drops his hand and forces a smile before turning.

“I’ve a bit of a headache. I’m heading home to sleep it off.”

“Very well,” Alfie says, with just a slight frown. “Call if you need anything.”

The older man doesn’t suggest the room in the East Wing and Dev is grateful. He gives a slight wave and then leaves the house by the front door. The bedroom he has there is a brilliant convenience, but Dev still resists the idea of it as fully his. He tries to think of it as a temporary station; it is a place he tries to reserve for very late nights, to catch a few hours of sleep before dawn, for showering and changing if he’s ended up blood-splattered.

He climbs into his car and just sits. He should have taken meds hours ago, at the first sign of a headache. But he put it off like a bloody idiot and now the sun pouring through the windshield looks something like strobe lighting and there’s a cricket in the landscaping that sounds rather a lot like fingernails dragged across styrofoam.

Dev has one hand on the keys in the ignition.

There is no sodding way he’s safe to drive.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters at the steering wheel, pinching his eyes shut again.

Migraines have been a fact of life ever since he lay collapsed on his mum’s kitchen floor with a fractured frontal bone. They were frequent at first, but have ebbed out to only one or two a year; the last he properly had was sometime in January and he’d holed up in his flat for the whole of a day waiting it out. The last he’d caught in the beginning stages and prevented from turning into a full-blown case while road-tripping with Jason to Gotham a few months before, so he supposes he’s rather overdue.

After several minutes of channeling his frustration into intense hatred of that bloody cricket that won’t fucking shut up, he decides that he can’t just sit indefinitely in his car in the Manor driveway. He drags himself out of the car and back up the steps and into the house.

The shattering inside his brain is already consuming enough that he doesn’t particularly care if anyone notices him. He mostly just doesn’t want to be stopped because he doesn’t think he can handle any conversation without vomiting or passing out, so when he walks past the kitchen toward the back hall and Wayne calls after him, “Alfred said you’d gone home,” Dev just answers,

“Migraine,” without slowing or turning. He’s relieved that he isn’t followed and he doesn’t stop until he’s in the small loo of the east wing room, standing with his forehead pressed against the cool wall while he unbuttons his shirt and drops it next to the cracked white tile by the toilet. He stares at the tile for a moment, wondering at it in a detached way. It seems especially out of place right in the moment for some reason and he can’t figure out why.

But the migraine doesn’t let him wonder for long and he turns the shower on and faces the tilted showerhead to let the frigid water pound against his forehead and drip over his face. He shivers once but forces himself to stand there, willing his blood vessels and nerves to work properly.

Twice, he steps back from the water only to realize a second later with his hand on the shower knob that any improvement vanishes when he moves away from the spray.

The third time, he’s not sure if it’s any better but he’s too exhausted to stay on his feet. He shuts the water off, puts minimal effort into drying himself off, stumbles out of the loo with the towel wrapped around his waist, and heads straight for bed.

It has helped, he thinks, even if the lingering aid is a small relief. He’s on the bed with one arm over his head for several minutes, shifting occasionally while trying to find that one motionless spot that will be least agonizing, before he glances over and realizes there’s a tray on the bedside table.

A tray with a glass of water, an ice pack and a heating pad, and bottles of ibuprofen and caffeine pills. Dev chokes back an involuntarily noise that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and takes the medicine and presses the ice pack against his forehead.

He falls asleep sometime after that, curled up at the one angle that is the least bothersome.

Dev wakes at 4:29 in the morning, fully alert and blessedly migraine-free, and he knows within a few seconds that he won’t be falling back asleep. He rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling. His head doesn’t hurt, but it has a vaguely hollow feeling, as if he could either be fine or the migraine could return to fill the space, so he moves cautiously when he does move.

The lukewarm icepack is on the pillow beside him and the sheets are a tangled mess. He realizes after studying the swirled and detailed plaster of the ceiling that he’s hungry, so he gets out of bed and dresses in shorts and a t-shirt he’d left earlier as a backup for workouts in the Cave.

Dev heads for the kitchen, appreciating the vastness of the Manor, knowing he’s likely to not be overheard or bother anyone since this is the window where the occupants usually actually sleep for a few hours.

The halls are dim and lit only gently at intervals by small lamps or sconces on timers and every room he passes is dark, so he is surprised when he approaches the kitchen and sees light pouring out across the threshold into the hallway.

He slows before he reaches the doorway, waiting and listening to make certain he’s not interrupting anything, but the only sounds from within the room that he can make out are those of liquid being poured and the scratch of pen on paper.

Dev peers around the corner into the room and sees Alfie sitting at the table in pinstripe pyjamas, a cup of tea in his hand and a crossword puzzle in front of him, a teapot and plate of pear slices on the table.

“Hullo,” Dev calls quietly, joining him at the table. “Mind if I sit?”

“Not in the least,” the older man looks up from the puzzle and smiles. He doesn’t look especially surprised, and Dev guesses his footsteps as he approached were thunderously loud compared to the ingrained silence of the Wayne’s.

“I take it you’re feeling better?” Alfie asks, filling in a few letters.

“Much, thanks. And thanks for the tray. I’ll return it today before I go,” Dev leans on the table and props his chin on one hand, scanning the crossword sideways.

“Don’t mention it,” Alfie says. “I only hope it helped. Are the migraines frequent?”

There’s something hard and warning in the older man’s tone, something Dev thinks he would miss entirely if he didn’t know him as well as he does now. It’s both concern and a kind of scolding, a _you ought to have told me, if so_ that the question carries.

“No,” Dev says, relieved that he can say this honestly and reassure the older man he hasn’t been hiding things. “Only one or two a year now. More frequently when I was younger, but I think this is only the third since we’ve met.”

“Hmm,” Alfie answers, sounding satisfied by the answer. “Would you care for some tea?”

“Please,” Dev says, putting a hand on the older man’s arm when Alfie starts to stand. “But I know where the cups are.”

He finds a cup and opens the fridge to hunt for food.

“There are leftovers,” Alfie says, turning slightly in his seat. He taps the pen against his lips and then jots a few more letters down. “The blue-lidded container.”

“The one marked Tuesday?” Dev asks, pulling his head out of the fridge with a container in one hand. He looks over the label, _TUES 7/21_.

Alfie looks up sharply and makes a face, but Dev understands it’s not quite at him.

“Goodness gracious, no. That must have been overlooked. Put that in the sink, if you don’t mind. Look up a shelf.”

Dev does so and returns to the fridge to find a container of roast chicken and potatoes. He snags a fork from a drawer and takes the container and the tea cup back to the table.

“We have a microwave,” Alfie says, glancing once at the food when Dev pops the lid off. “And plates. I could show you how to use them, if you like.”

Dev laughs.

“Sod off, it’s too much trouble. I don’t mind it cold.”

“The only place for cold chicken is salad or a picnic,” Alfie replies, but he doesn’t move to force the matter.

“Do you’ve any checkered blankets? I’ll spread one on the table if it’ll make you feel better,” Dev offers with a grin.

Alfie’s smile is small, just pursed lips and a wrinkle near his eyes, but he doesn’t lift his pen from the word he’s adding to the puzzle.

“What’s gotten you up so early, anyroads?” Dev asks, viciously stabbing a potato piece with the tines of his fork.

Alfie sets his pen down and reaches across the table to pour tea into the cup Dev brought over. When he sets the teapot down, he picks up a piece of pear and answers before biting it,

“Jason phoned to talk about Tennessee Williams. Then it didn’t seem worth the trouble of going back to bed. I’d be up in another, oh,” Alfie tips his mobile up off the table and then sets it down again, “fifteen minutes as it is.”

“Is he alright?” Dev asks around a sip of his tea.

“Just excited,” Alfie smiles. “Contextual revelation and whatnot. I rather think he called to discuss it with Master Bruce and settled for me when he found he’d just gone to bed.”

“And I think,” Dev says with conviction, while poking at a piece of chicken, “that you underestimate both his attachment to you and his regard for your opinion.”

Alfie turns away toward the counters and Dev assumes at first it’s to hide some display of emotion, and it might be, but Alfie also tilts his head and then stands and announces, “Master Bruce is awake.”

“How in the bloody hell do you do that?” Dev asks, startled, as Alfie steps around the counter and pulls a bag of coffee beans from a cabinet.

A moment later, the whir of a coffee grinder fills the kitchen. When it shuts off, Alfie scoops coffee grounds into the filter of the coffee maker and says,

“The pipes. One can hear when the showers upstairs start running.”

“One cannot,” Dev protests. “ _You_ might, but I certainly didn’t.”

“That’s because I was listening and you were not,” Alfie says mildly, looking over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “You likely filter it out as non-pertinent information, but it is the starting gun for my day.”

“Cor,” Dev says, looking down at tea. “I always feel like I’m missing something in this house. What’s in this tea?”

“Rose petal. I was in the mood. Sorry, I didn’t think to mention it. Can I ask you something?” Alfie asks, sitting at the table again, the coffee brewing in a hissing _drip drip drip_ into the glass pot.

“It’s interesting. On the good side of interesting,” Dev says, sipping it again. “Ask away.”

“You left a can of green paint in the Cave the other day. I presume it’s for the medbay wall?”

“It is,” Dev says. “I’ve been putting it off for a while. I’ll get to it this week.”

“It’s not an especially pleasant shade of green,” Alfie says slowly, a little reluctantly, Dev thinks.

“It’s hospital grade,” Dev answers, unoffended. “Science, Alfie. It cancels out the red of the blood when one looks up; reduces eye strain.”

“Oh,” Alfie says, sounding a little delighted. “Now _that’s_ rather fascinating.”

“Alfred,” Wayne’s voice carries into the room before he appears, in slacks and tugging at a tie around his flipped up collar, a suit jacket draped over one arm. He doesn’t seem startled that Alfie is in pyjamas or that Dev is in the kitchen. “A little help.”

Alfie stands and meets him at the end of the island counter and quickly knots the tie, while Wayne studies one hand with a perturbed expression and then yawns.

“Still can’t move these two fingers,” he says.

“Broken?” Dev asks, unabashedly watching them. Alfie turns from Wayne to pour coffee into a travel mug he’s set on the counter.

“Don’t think so,” Wayne says, yawning again while he slips his arms into the jacket. “Just stoved, but only two hours ago.”

“You’re off early,” Alfie observes, handing Wayne the coffee. He accepts the mug in his good hand and flips his collar down with his stiff one.

“Tim called. One of the Japanese investors has a wife who went into labor so Tim moved up the meeting and booked him a morning flight. I don’t know how he found out. I’ll come home early.”

When Wayne pauses to take a long drink of the scalding coffee, Alfie reaches and straightens his tie. There is a moment that passes between them, a look from Wayne and a barely perceptible shake of Alfie’s head in response, and Dev intuitively knows it’s somehow about him. It makes his stomach tense and he doesn’t know why; he pushes the rest of the roast leftovers away from him a bit and stares down at his tea.

“Dev,” Wayne says as a farewell and Dev looks up and gives a wave.

“Have a bloody good day, sweetheart!” Dev calls after him, getting a scolding look from Alfie that he thinks hides a smirk.

“You too, darling!” Wayne calls back from the hall and Dev chokes on his tea, spewing drops of liquid across the table and giving Alfie an apologetic and shocked look. Alfie looks far too pleased for Dev’s comfort.

“I’ll wipe that up,” Dev says, biting his lip and then grinning. It helps settle some of the tension gathering in his limbs. He gets up to hunt for a rag and takes the one Alfie hands him over the counter.

A moment later, they’re both sitting at the table drinking tea again like they’d never been interrupted.

“Help yourself,” Alfie says, motioning to the plate of pear slices. Dev takes one and bites off half of it, but it’s gritty in his mouth and he knows it’s not the fruit but the anxious dryness between his teeth.

“So,” Dev says, feeling that he and Alfie have both sensed the minute’s shift in the atmosphere. He has literally no idea what the exchange between Wayne and Alfie was about, only that he’s incredibly certain he was the cause, and not knowing why is throwing him into every worst-case scenario.

“So, how is your sister? The one in…Minnesota, is it?” Alfie asks, his head bent over the crossword puzzle again. The man seems in no hurry to leave the kitchen, to change, or start the day, now that Wayne is gone and with Damian away at the Kents.

“She’s well, and the kids,” Dev answers, confused by the topic. “I saw her a week and a half ago. But you know that. And we’ve discussed it already.”

He realizes with a start that the older man seems slightly nervous, avoiding his eye.

Oh god he’s being sacked.

The shite with the Joker has finally caught up with him, made him a liability. Or maybe it was something with Jason. Or he’s gotten lax somewhere, overstepped some boundary he’s not even remembered was there because he’s let himself get too comfortable.

It doesn’t matter that they’ve not technically paid him; he’s always understood that at some level it wasn’t his decision how long he stayed or if he was allowed to keep coming ‘round.

He forces down the second half of the pear slice and feigns nonchalance, which he thinks he’s getting better at.

“When do you have to give Chicago your decision?” Alfie asks, quiet and unreadable.

Dev almost drops his tea cup, fumbling it for a precarious second and just barely recovering without spilling the tea on his gym shorts.

He hasn’t breathed a word about that to _anyone_. He’d gone into work two weeks prior to find a formal offer for a senior neurosurgeon position in Rush University Hospital’s larger neurology center. The only one who could have possibly known was Tony Fabriello, because he has colleagues there.

“How did you…” Dev can’t even finish the question. He doesn’t put it past Wayne to occasionally monitor his email or mobile, and he understands that it would be a safety measure, but the thought that Wayne would do something with non-threatening information astounds and frightens him.

“Your boss,” Alfie says simply, and for a moment this does nothing to clear up Dev’s confusion. “He told the board they’d need to starting hunting for your replacement. Apparently, one of them remembered that Master Bruce had had a hand in finding you and asked him if he had any suggestions. As you can imagine, it was rather a shock to both of us.”

“Shite,” Dev says, setting the tea down and putting his head in his hands for a moment. His tension and fear is draining out of him and turning into something else. Then he sits up and leans forward to put a hand on Alfie’s shoulder, just long enough to get the older man to look at him. The other man’s expression is extremely guarded, nearly blank.

“Fucking Tony,” Dev sighs. “I think he arranged things, thought he was doing me a favor. He’s going to be rather pissed off when he finds out I declined. I thought he had, to be honest.”

“You refused the offer?” Alfie asks, some of the guardedness dropping away. And Dev sees him for what he is: not a butler, but a dear friend, trying to determine why what must have felt like rather big news was kept from him and his family.

“Of course! The day I got it!” Dev exclaims. “Who the bloody hell do I know in Chicago? What would I do with myself?”

“Well,” Alfie says, sounding defensive now, “it’s far closer to your sister, for one thing. It wouldn’t be such a burden to visit.”

“I see Rani plenty,” Dev returns. “It’s not a burden.”

“Kiran,” Alfie puts the pen down and looks fully at him. If Dev’s anxiety has faded, Alfie’s nervousness has ebbed in parallel, and he has his usual quiet authority now. “Master Bruce and I were…concerned. Concerned that perhaps you were struggling with the decision out of a sense of obligation to us. And now knowing you decided so quickly, I am just as much concerned as I ever was. I ought to tell you first that you’re certainly always welcome here, but we’d rather you not feel trapped. If you wish to go, to be closer to family, you needn’t stay out of regard for us.”

“Bloody hell,” Dev says, frowning at the table, touched by the concern and trying to think of how to be most convincing, how to best genuinely convey himself. “How do I…I ought…well.”

He sips his tea.

“Visiting Rani is like visiting the Kents,” he says. “It’s lovely. They’re bloody lovely people. But it’s like a dream. A life that might have been mine but isn’t, and while it’s comforting to visit, I don’t want to sodding sleep forever. I enjoy it for a bit, then I miss my own life, my real one. There are little things that might be pleasant enough for the people who live there all the time, but they start to feel like fucking burrs in my socks, and well, I want to come home. And this is it for me now, however it might have come about. Home, I mean.”

Alfie takes a deep breath, one that fills and expands his chest, and then speaks again with carefully measured words as if they are things he doesn’t want to say but feels he ought.

“She _is_ your sister. With some time, you could likely find that same place there, or something like it. You shouldn’t stay here out of fear, as much as we’d be loathe to see you go.”

The silence that follows is less tense than prior ones but still fraught with emotion and Dev squirms a bit, scowling at the tea, before collecting his thoughts and relaxing into them.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you how much I appreciated your invitation to tea that day in the hospital,” Dev says, snagging a pear slice from the plate. “I don’t think you knew what you were getting yourself into, though, and for that, I’m bloody sorry.”

“I’m not,” Alfie says sharply, matching his gaze.

“I’ve felt the whole of my life that there was something bloody wrong with me,” Dev replies, twisting his mouth wryly and scuffing his toe on the floor. “And when I’m lost in surgery or a proper medical emergency, it’s really the only time I’ve ever felt right. Until I started working here. I’ve started to make sense of myself for the first time and feel something other than broken. I still get sodding lost in surgery, I still like the medical technology and research, but despite all my protests, I’ve really stuck around because I’ve never found anywhere else I feel as understood. I can’t bloody leave that, not for Chicago or for anything, and it’s not obligation or fear keeping me. It’s just that I bloody love the lot of you.”

Dev finishes off his tea and realizes that if he would have felt self-conscious about a speech like this even six months ago, he can say it now while holding Alfie’s gaze and with no small measure of conviction.

Alfie’s face, which has been a level mask of stern and sober challenge, relaxes into a warm smile.

“Goodness gracious,” he says quietly, “if you’re _that_ certain you’re happy here, then by all means, stay.”

“I am,” Dev says, pulling the container of leftover chicken back toward him. He chews a potato, rosemary and olive oil and white wine on his tongue, settling into a sort of day-dreamy ease now that they’ve sorted things and the apprehension in the kitchen has dissipated.

“Besides,” he adds after a moment, looking sidelong at Alfie, “I can’t go anywhere until you let me take you hiking at Vernon. We never have gotten to go.”

The truth is, he’d nearly forgotten himself, with his mum dying only weeks after the February party and then they’d both been busy and even if he had a free day, it was much more rare for Alfie to have one. But today it’s a quarter to six and the older man is still in pyjamas.

“I could bloody order it, you know,” he says when the older man doesn’t answer right away. “As your doctor.”

“You’ve such a way with friends, Kiran. It’s very gracious,” Alfie says, capping his pen. “I was thinking the day through. I think I could fit it in. I do rather feel the need of a day out. Shall we drive up together? Take the Tesla?”

Dev grins and stands to clear the dishes.

“Bloody hell, yes,” he says, “Let’s do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kent Farm story _Out Here Hopes Remains_ will go up starting tomorrow. Thank you ALL for all the time you've spent with me and Dev and this iteration of the Batfamily. Thank you SO MUCH for your encouragement, wonderful comments, and for loving and supporting Dev. I'm honestly blown away by the reception he's gotten because I know OCs can be annoying or intrusive. So...thank you. For giving him a chance.
> 
> Thank you. :)


	46. Out Here Hope Remains

The Kent Farm sequel is now live:

 

[Out Here Hope Remains](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8464060/chapters/19391176)

 

Thank you so much for reading and commenting and encouraging! It means so much to me!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [My Pay Is Justice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612404) by [DawnsEternalLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight)




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